If Clouds Could Talk by Garth Wallace (Click on the cover to order this book) (Scroll down for a sample chapter)
		Illustrated by aviation artist Francois Bougie www.bizzart.com

Laugh with Wallace as he turns his humorous storytelling to the little-known, private world of corporate aviation.
Fly eye-to-eye with the Statue of Liberty, talk to a rhyming radar operator and learn aerobatics from a sadistic mortician.

“If Clouds Could Talk” is number six in the author's series of funny flying books that includes “Cockpit Follies” and “Derry Air.”

If Clouds Could Talk

Soft cover
$18.95 CDN / $18.95 U.S.

Sample chapter - If Clouds Could Talk

Chapter one / Pretzel Aviation

“Do you want any stunts tonight, Don?” I asked from the pilot’s seat.
Don Hitchcock was squeezing his portly frame into the back of his corporate airplane. 
My passenger smiled. “Well, it’s been a good week,” he declared, plopping himself down in the seat. “How about a couple of victory rolls after takeoff?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Coming right up.”
I started the engine. Don fastened his seat belts. I called the ground controller for taxi instructions.
“I’ve been telling people that my pilot works nights as a roller coaster operator,” Don chuckled. “That’s why he can’t fly straight and level.”
We were cleared to taxi to the runway.
“Seat belts tight, Don?” I called out.
He laughed. “With my girth they’re tight when they’re loose!”
Don Hitchcock was a politician. He looked the part. Thinning hair topped a round face. A cheesy smile connected his chubby cheeks. Sloping shoulders drooped all the way to his bourbon belly.
Don’s idea of a corporate airplane was eccentric and practical at the same time. He was looking for something to shuttle him to and from work so he bought a Champion Citabria, a two-seat, fabric-covered, aerobatic airplane. When it wasn’t flying Don, it earned money on a lease arrangement at the flying school that I operated with a partner.
We took off from the Toronto Island Airport and headed southwest along the Lake Ontario shoreline. Five miles later, the air traffic controller cleared us from his frequency. I acknowledged, eased the airplane’s nose down slightly and let the speed build to 120 mph. Then I pulled the Citabria’s nose up to the horizon, added power and pushed the control stick over. The wings rolled left and the shoreline rotated right.
As we passed through inverted, Don sang out, “With my pilot you can’t throw up. You never know which way up is!”
The wings came around to level. I neutralized the controls.
Flying Don to work and back was my first corporate aviation job. On this trip, I had ferried the aircraft empty from the City of Circus, near Niagara Falls, to Toronto on a Friday afternoon to pick him up.
“My pilot flies for Pretzel Aviation,” Don hooted. “When we’re not upside down, we’re inside out!”
I rolled the airplane to the right.
“Yahoo!” my irrepressible passenger cheered. “What does this look like on radar?”
“Pretzel sounds good,” I replied. “Do you want to try one?”
“Naw, not tonight. I’d rather have a refreshment.”
When we were level again, I reached under my seat and unzipped a pocket built in specially for Don. I pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a glass and held them over my shoulder.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Don said reaching for them. “A man’s got to have some vice.”