in just this way, hearkening to the pleadings of my mother and father, leaving Columbia and going to California.
When I left New York I intended to follow up Medical Research—that, at least, still greatly appealed to me in the field of medicine. But somehow, I did not get into the swing of the western universities before aviation caught me. The interest aroused in me in Toronto led me to all the air circuses in the vicinity. And, by dragging my father around and prompting him to make inquiries, I became more and more interested.
One day he and I were among the spectators at a meet at Long Beach.
“Dad, please ask that officer how long it takes to fly”, I said, pointing out a doggy young man in uniform.
“Apparently it differs with different people”, my good parent reported after some investigation, “though the average seems to be from five to ten hours.”
“Please find out how much lessons cost”, I continued.
“The answer to that is a thousand dollars. But why do you want to know?”
I wasn’t really sure. Anyway, such were the second-hand conversations I had with the patient pilots of those days. And, somehow or other, I felt in my bones that a hop would come soon.
The field where I first went up is a residential suburb of Los Angeles. Then it was simply an
