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Laugh with Wallace as the big-city flying instructor learns that the riches to be found running a small-town flying school are in the characters and the memories. In Pie In The Sky, Wallace discovers cowboy agricultural pilots, airport bicycle rodeos, Mennonite buggy buzzing, airplane water skiing and other off-the-wall, aviation adventures. What others say about Pie In The Sky "I’m pleased to see that Garth has finally
learned to write." "You are so good at sketching characters. I loved
every minute of it." "Pie in the Sky is an easy read, laugh-a-page book
that any pilot, would-be pilot, or non-flier with an appreciation for humor would love to
check out." "Pie In The Sky is a vivid recreation of the hilarious
events and unforgettable experiences of Wallace’s real-life instructing
exploits." Pie In The Sky Soft cover - 146 pages of small-town humour $16.95 CDN / $16.95 U.S.
Sample chapter “Pie In The Sky”
Chapter one / Welcome to Pie
What I saw when I pulled into the flying school parking lot did not improve my state of mind. Pie Municipal Airport appeared to hold little promise for work. There were two buildings -- a large, old wooden hangar and a small, brick office. I could see three garden-variety Cessna airplanes and a well-worn Piper Colt parked on the ramp. There were a few other aircraft in tie-downs and three cars in the lot, but the sky was empty. It was like a scene from one of those doomsday movies that are filmed in New York City at five o’clock Sunday morning when nothing is moving. There was no movement at Pie Airport, even the windsock hung unmoving on its ring. The sleepy scene was typical of many small-town airports in Canada. The field was probably left over from the war and was being operated unprofitably by a few aviation diehards with more enthusiasm than business sense. No people about and no flying could only mean no job. I pushed myself to get out of my Volkswagen Beetle and look around anyway. I walked over to the brick “terminal building” and opened the door. Inside was a living-room-sized lounge with large windows overlooking the runways. A counter along the right side provided a divider for an office. A man with his back to me was leaning on the counter and talking to a young woman on the other side. When I closed the door he stopped in mid-sentence and turned my way. He seemed surprised to see a stranger. “Can I help you?” he asked. His tone indicated that I must be lost. He was a tall man in his late twenties. Baggy clothes gave him a clown-like, shapeless appearance. His long, horse face was topped with an unruly shock of red hair. I decided he must be the janitor or maybe a mechanic. “Is the manager around?” I asked politely. His face lit up. “That’s me,” he declared with a big smile. The reply surprised me, but I recovered quickly and introduced myself. “I’m a flying instructor who has just moved into town and I’m looking for work.” His body jerked into motion almost like a child’s wind-up toy. He lurched toward me with his grin widening and his bobbing up and down. Instead of shaking my hand, he took my shoulders in both hands. “Can you start today?” He boomed the question in my face. At the same time he nodded his own head up and down again, as if forcing me to say, “Yes.” “Sure,” I said. It was a startled, automatic response. “That’s fantastic,” he roared, “you can fly with my first student.” He was getting very excited. He held my shoulders as if to prevent me from changing my mind. “You came at the perfect time,” he continued. “The student will be here soon and it’s his first flying lesson. I really hate giving those.” He released one shoulder so he could pump my hand. “I’m Hector Smithers,” he said, calming slightly. “and this here’s our receptionist, Ursula.” He waved toward the girl. She smiled and nodded. “This is great,” he added, turning excited again. Then he looked at his watch. “Well, you’ll be flying TWX, the red and white Cessna One-Fifty out there. You’d better go and check it over. Ursula will introduce you to the customer when he gets here.” The girl smiled again. “I’m going to call my folks,” Smithers continued, “I want to take them flying.” He pushed me toward the door and turned to the phone. My mind was well behind what was going on, but I collected myself. Halfway to the door I stopped. “Excuse me, Hector,” I said, almost apologetically, “I have very little time in Cessna 150s. I’ve been flying floatplanes for the last six months. Shouldn’t I have a checkout first?” The checkout was just one of the thoughts rushing into my head -- what about salary, schedule, curriculum? The manager/janitor’s reaction to my job request was unexpected and bizarre. It didn’t seem right. “Nonsense,” Hector said, looking at his watch again, “if you’ve flown on wheels, you never forget -- like riding a bike. You have flown on wheels, haven’t you?” “Yes sir.” “Well, there you go. And Cessna 150s are the easiest airplanes in the world to fly.” I was forming an unflattering character assessment of this man. What sort of manager would hire an instructor off the street and send him flying, knowing nothing more than his name? He hadn’t checked my pilot licence, log book or background, but I was also making up my mind to take the job. It was here and it was now. I could always quit if I found something better. In the meantime, I could learn the school’s regulations and curriculum from the chief flying instructor.
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