Help, Get Me Out Of Here

So not too long ago, we flew to an airshow in Ontario, OR. It was a great honor to have a WWII pilot command our Cessna–he’s a dear friend of my husband’s. All was well and good until it was time to leave and fly back to the Boise area. We loved

the planes, the show, it was fabulous meeting our WWII friend’s friends who fought in the big one. Listening to their stories was humbling. The aerobatics of the planes was great, too! Anyway, time to pack up and head home (early as we had a family BBQ to attend) . . . and we find out the airport is closed. The FAA closed it due to the show. So here we are in Ontario and Boise is a good hour drive away. What do we do?

My husband called a cab to drive us back to our hangar. Seems like a reasonable solution. The temp this particular day was in the high 90s. Normally, my kind of weather. But without AC it can get a little uh . . . hot. Anyway, this taxi comes rolling into the entrance of the airport and I’m thinking–please no. This can’t be for us.


But it was for us. A 1958 Checker cab with bullet holes in the windshield and no air conditioning. Tentatively, we all got in. Windows down, we barrelled over the freeway as the tires shake, rattled and rolled. An hour later, we were back at our hangar . . . I could resist taking a photo of the cab. Nobody would believe me if I didn’t!

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