I  have talked about Kudzu and flowers of the night, a fine rattlesnake recipe which remains a memorable culinary delight. I have passed along memories of Gunslinger Camps from the mosquito latitudes of Moccasin Bend.

The time has come to speak of “Tru-Luvz” past. Not mine, of course, for all of my beloved exes assure me that my qualifications in that department were not only mundane but also boring and not to be confused with general entertainment.

I had decided to write a column on the subject of that fine old agricultural source of entertainment, the ag-pilot or crop duster. The hard line, old school legends of carnage and love. While there are still a few of the old time piston engine characters around, they are becoming scarcer (and also scarier).

When I began this project, I expected to hear a few hairy landing stories, something about a P.O.’d wing commander, and a few other entertaining lies about the MeKong Valley or the Chosin Resovoir or the battle of Midway.

While I was sure that from the youngest “Hot Stick” to the crustiest old vet there would be a gold mine of narrow escapes, hot landing zones, sad equipment failures and general memories which by nature conjure up images of drama and high adventure.

Well, like the best laid plans of mice and men it didn’t work out as anticipated.

None of those old geezers could tell me anything I didn’t know, but by Heaven I know how to pluck a chicken, and I did. I consulted their wives. They had collectively kept most of those old recalcitrant reprobates alive far beyond their predicted life spans, considering and allowing for their propensities for craving life on the “edge.”

I’m sure those ladies raised a lot of “conjugal hell” idiosyncrasies as odd lifestyles are an occupational hazard in that line of business. The ladies had mem-wars that shone like a silvery moon. Such as:

A marriage proposal made and accepted on what was left of the lower starboard wing of a demolished Stearman biplane in the year of our Lord 1961.

In another case an aborted honeymoon flight to the country of Belize, due to a mechanical malfunction on an antiquated seaplane.

“Thank God,” she said, “The old crate would still float even though it would no longer fly.”

One occasion involved a hot hairy landing in a cow pasture for anniversary wild flowers.

Unfortunately, it was not obvious until it was almost too late that they were being tended by an extremely ill tempered guernsey bull.

There was a subsequent gravel road touchdown at a country store for hoop cheese and crackers and homemade muscadine wine near Moccasin Bend.

Some of those ladies are widows now but they have certainly “been to the dance.”

My sources for this column are: cousin Kevin, Dundee Flying Services; Jody Hall, J&J Flying Services in Sledge; Duck Aldison (R and D), Allison Flying Services; family and friends of Dean Champion of Marks and my personal memories of Bill Diffie of Crenshaw.

Cousin Kevin managed to break a Turbo Thrush into three large pieces this year and walked away unscathed.

Jody Hall made an air-assisted arrest on a passel of armed robbers in Quitman County who tried to raid Mrs. Harvey Mathews’ grocery store some years ago. He went air borne and followed ‘em to Tunica, got down beside the highway, borrowed a phone and they were apprehended at the 4-61 intersection.

The family of David Lauhorn and last but not least the descendants of Gordon Hopper, who employed me at the age of nine, put a control stick in my hand at the age of 12.

Also Russel Snook, south African Air Force pilot who flew Harrier Jets with valor in the Falkland War, but wrecked a breeze ultralite three times in six months.

He survived the third crash but the plane did not. His wife burned it before we could put it back together.

Be nice to the ladies, boys, and keep an eye on the sky.

Ricky