Every city and town contains people of different classes: rich, poor, and somewhere in between. What’s it like where you live? If it’s difficult for you to discern and describe the different types of classes in your locale, describe what it was like where you grew up — was it swimming pools and movie stars, industrial and working class, somewhere in between or something completely different?
Where I was raised all you had to do was mention the name of the subdivision: Lost Creek, Country Club Hills, and Ridgewood as an example. That told all you needed to know. As for myself I moved easily through each group. I found everyone interesting and fascinating. One day I could be in a house with a formal dinning room and the next a three room shack with no dinning room. I enjoyed the company of all. As for me; I was a country boy.
Now, if you please, enjoy my short story about a bush pilot who could really be anybody from anywhere, but he’s the type of people I enjoy most; rich, poor, cultured or otherwise, the most important quality is love, kindness, loyalty, a quick laugh, and an easy smile.
Roger, The Bush Pilot
Roger flew low over Byron’s camp. Byron waved, signaling Roger to land. He sat his Cessna 150 down on the airstrip about a good rock’s throw from Byron’s cabin. He taxied and spun the plane toward the other end of the strip.
The engine was cut and sputtered to a stop.
“Hey, Rog,” Byron said approaching the plane and hunched under the wing.
Roger climbed out the door and without a word.
“It’s bad news isn’t it?” Byron said. “It’s written all over your face.”
“You are so gullible, my friend,” Roger said. He reached inside his lapel pocket and pulled out a white envelope. It’s all here.”
“How do you know unless you peeked?” Byron said.
“It fell on the floor and cracked open,” Roger said. “I couldn’t help myself. I had to look.”
Byron grabbed the letter from Roger’s hand before it could be handed to him formally. “Let me have that. You probably have it memorized by now.”
“Sure, I have,” Roger said. “I already set it to music; no easy task, mind you.”
Byron opened the envelope and began reading aloud, “We have received your recent manuscript and are pleased to inform you we will publish your novel, Into The Blue. Enclosed is an advance of $10,000. Please sign the enclosed contract and mail it before depositing or cashing the check.”
“Wow, Rog!” Byron said. “What a great day. This calls for a celebration. Come on inside. Let me put a couple moose steaks on the grill and dig some potatoes out of the root cellar.”
“That sounds good,” Roger said. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“Roger,” Byron said. “Breakfast was only two hours ago.”
An hour later they sat down to a sumptuous meal beside a warm fire.
“My that was good,” Roger said.
“Thanks, Rog,” Byron said. “But most of all thanks for making a special trip out here to deliver the good news.”
“No problem,” Roger said. “By the way, what is your book about? You’ve never told me anything about it.”
Byron leaned back in his chair and smiled. “It’s about a Canadian bush pilot; the dangers and adventures he faces.”
“What!” Roger said. “Flying is looking at nothing and doing nothing. Except for the takeoff and landing it’s nothing.”
“I’m aware of that, Rog,” Byron said. “I thought the book might give you a feeling of worth and inspire you.”
“You, dog,” Roger said. “I suppose I’ll have to go on book tours with you.”
“Nah,” Byron said. “I hate to give away the ending, but you die, but in a glorious flaming crash. It‘s some of my best writing.”
“It better be,” Roger said.