Tomorrow morning I am going to call those guys who have a flight school about an hours drive away. I kinda hate to do that for a couple of reasons, but the main reason is I am afraid. What if they aren't hiring ( like I heard they are ). What if they are hiring ... I've heard their foreign students in the air ... They are never where they say they are ... I mean, I get the whole metric system conversion conundrum, but isn't NE pretty much NE everywhere? I've heard other pilots ask " diamond 123cf say altitude" or other little "where are you really?" type questions intended only to facilitate orderly traffic flow in this busy little uncontrolled space. I have never heard one of those guys respond. They'll call left base for 36 and you'll finally spot them right downwind ... They'll land taxi back and roll right out in front of the guy on final without ever making another call. They say words that lull you into thinking ... This guy knows what he's doing. I do the same thing with my Spanish. I'll think I said my cousin blahblahblah and then find out I really said my asshole blahblahblah ... It makes for a much more interesting story, but in the airplane, interesting is almost never the trajectory one wants to stay on. So, all that to say: if they aren't hiring I may be in for a disappointment, if they are hiring, I may be in for a disappointment. Tonight I thought of all the times my big brother " dared" me to do something ... Usually something that could potentially land one of us at the Drs office getting stitches, or in big trouble with our Momma, or both. I never see that abbreviation "lmao" without thinking of him. I have a tiny scar on my right thumb ... I took his pocketknife and peeled a layer of skin off when I was probably five or maybe six years old. We had seen some nonsense about blood brothers on one if those black and white cowboy shows. He cut his little finger. I remember saying, "You're already my brother" and him "I know, but that's just 'cause we have the same Momma and Daddy ... This is 'cause we mean it ... Come on I dare you." That's the first dare I remember ... The dare that made him my blood brother. We were big on daring each other. Sometimes I really wish I could call him up and hear him goad me on "Come on sissy pants ( we were real trash talkers ) ... What are you chicken?! And the hook was set with, " I dare you." Our deal was if you took the dare the other "darer" had to do whatever it was too. Thank God no one ever got really hurt. He did knock a piece of a permanent tooth
out once ... and had the cap over it as a reminder. Well, every scar on my skinny little sun browned legs was from zooming my bike over some craziness we'd devised ... or testing a parachute ... or whatever ill conceived notion was hatched in our mischeivious imaginations... . My ground school kids were trying to get me to say I'd jump out of an airplane the other day, and I thought sure I would given a proper challenge. I told them "no way, I wouldn't risk a broken leg for a thrill jump ... . I'm thinking about this tonight because I am feeling kinda chicken. A blood brother can sense that kind of weakness ... He'd dare me to if it took that. I'll go take a look at that program ... Obviously. It's been on my mind. If I have to, I'll dare myself.