Memories
of Foo Foo

When I was a young fellow, probably 22 years old, I bought my
first new car. It was a Volkswagen Beetle. Come to think of
it, it’s the only car that was brand new I’ve ever owned! All
of my vehicles since then have been from the used car lots, and
most were much more than a basic Bug. Owning a brand new car
every year or two has just never been important.
I would never deny the next person his
desire, his requirement for the car, the truck, motorcycle, or
whatever it is that turns his crankshaft. For a time, owning an
airplane really made sense to me. And I have to admit to
becoming rather attached to one or two, even to the point of
giving one a name. This particular plane had the registration
letters CF-UFU. The obvious affectionate name became “FOO-FOO”.
Foo-Foo and I had some wonderful
times together. She was a Cessna 150, and taught me much about
flying, more than any instructor ever did. She responded well,
forgave me when I asked too much of her, and in spite of all the
hours I’d flown in bigger, faster more powerful airplanes, she
became my favorite. Her landings, even with some of my awkward
inputs, were smooth and graceful. On cross-country trips, she
loved to fly on her own, without me having to do anything more
than nudge the trim wheel occasionally. She had no bad habits.
We became good friends, the
airplane and I. We knew what to expect from each other. I’d
put in the gas, sometimes even Mogas, but Foo Foo didn’t seem to
mind. It all burned the same to her. She didn’t use up the
fresh oil that I gave her every 25 hours. Other pilots before
me had helped to wear out some of the parts, but they were soon
replaced over time at the annual inspection dates. It was one
aircraft that I came to trust on any flight. I soon relaxed
more and more instead of constantly being on the lookout for a
place to land if the engine ever quit. Foo Foo’s 0-200 was
always strong and smooth.
The radios and intercom provided
crisp, clear communication with ATC and any passengers that came
for the ride. All the instruments gave me the precise, accurate
information on their clear round faces. Everything worked
together the way the manufacturer promised when she was new, so
many years ago!
Instructors can teach a pilot
to fly, take off, land and control an airplane. It’s the
airplane that teaches how to enjoy it all. Foo Foo rewarded me
with picture perfect, gentle touchdowns on our days in the
circuit. She seemed to communicate the commands of when to
nudge the elevator, kick in some rudder, or add a touch of power
at just the right moment. Then with a barely audible squawk,
the wheels kissed the pavement, and she was rolling. No bounce,
no bumps, no shimmy. We could float with a touch of power until
just the right moment, the right spot on the runway where brakes
were not required to make the final exit and taxi in to her
hangar. I often imagined the controllers in the tower pausing
from their duties to admire the perfection of it all.
I was privileged to join two
other pilots in a successful partnership as owners of Foo Foo.
Fortunately for me, there were not many conflicts in booking
time to fly her. Extended trips of a week or more were often
possible for each of the owners, and we all enjoyed being
treated well by an airplane, an inanimate piece of machinery
that bored it’s way into our minds and hearts to become a good
friend. When time came to move on, I sold my share, and said
goodbye to the airplane. Other flying was in the works, and
there were times that it became more of a job than I would have
liked. These days, I often think of the little Cessna 150 as
another personal airplane. It’s not terribly exciting, not an
exotic flyer, not fast. But the connection between man and
machine is a reality. Some day, I can see myself attached to
another Foo Foo.
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