Meanwhile, a few thoughts

I spent this past weekend in nearby Santa Paula, at the airport for a fundraising event for the aviation museum.
SP is a lemon grove surrounded community that still holds onto a California of years past.Nearby Camarillo AP, a korea war era F 86 base,is rapidly becoming home to WW2 and other warbirds as Van Nuys AP hikes fees that only owners of Mitsubishi personal jets can afford, not old B 25s.
But SP is small, so small it was almost lost to river erosion during El Nino.
The ships are small too; Cliff Robertson keeps 3 vintage biplanes; two deHavilland Moths and a french trainer.
Almost 30 years ago, I was just home and
working at the second home of a retired art director. We were sitting out front having lunch, I brought some beers, and this loud motorcycle could be heard, violating the CCRs.
My friend's dad, Jan C. Van Tamelen smiled.'Ah that has got to be Steve!'
I didn't think much about that, until Steve pulled in,saw my beers and asked for one.
A few days later I helped drive back a car from Phil Hill's restoration shop after a hilarious ride in a vintage VW bug stuffed with a full race Porsche engine, picking fights with bloulevard cruisers in ferraris owned by orthodontists and tort lawyers.
Steve talked about his new passion, flying and this great place he found in Santa Paula where nobody made a big deal over his presence.
We talked flying, I suggested he carry a usefull pocketknife and a lighter, gifting one of several swiss Champs I had bought at the base PX for gifts before my seperation ( all of $15)
and my paper pocketbook edition of WIND,SAND AND STARS.
Sadly, Steve died within a year of cancer.
This weekend was a memorial of sorts; his wife Barbara came down to the small airport they lived at in a hanger, his memorabilia was on display and some VERY good pilots recalled he was an incredible student, flying up to 4 hours a lesson, remembering everything, duplicating everything perfectly ( honed by fast cars and motorcycles) fearless but never stupid.
The show's high point was not some impressive flyby of P 51 mustangs, but the flight of his bright yellow personal aircraft.
Steve McQueen could afford just about any aircraft available, and probably fly it, even at 59 years old and unknowingly possibly in the first stages of cancer.
He served his apprenticeship, never had a problem, always had fun-and always carried that SAK and a lighter over the green and yellow orchards and blue mountains and ocean.
His ship was a Stearman biplane, and if he didn't fly a P51 or go on hazardous flights, he still knew his full measure.