And, of course, he couldn't keep away from Edwards; he went down there to fly every chance he got. Northrop also hired him as a consultant, which gave him a chance to fly their F-20 and F-5 airplanes. The amazing thing about Chuck is that his eyes are still perfect. I can't even thread a needle with my glasses, but he does it for me in a flash. Of course, he can't hear worth a darn. He and Bud both, from all those years of roaring jet engines, but Chuck says he just turns up the radio in his headset so that it rattles the whole cockpit and he gets along fine.
Over the years, I was much more apprehensive about his driving than his flying. But now, when we go somewhere, he sets that darned cruise control at fifty-five and that's it. It's so boring I actually complain. But Chuck really hasn't changed. He's off and charging as much as ever. The publicity over The Right Stuff turned up all the burners, and that phone rings off the wall. He could be traveling every day of the year, but Chuck does what he wants to do, when he wants to do it. We have an agent to handle the commercials he does on television. A.C. Delco's sales went through the roof after Chuck began appearing. The nicest part is knowing that his accomplishments are appreciated out there. We could use a couple of secretaries to handle all the mail, but you know who does that chore.
We've had a good life. I wouldn't change a whole heck of a lot, even if I could. I have my routines. I feed the ducks out on the pond and take care of our pet, TDB, which stands for "That Damned Bird." TDB is a male quail that we found while walking in the woods. Its mother was killed by a hawk. I took him home, and he thinks I'm his mother now. He has the run of the house and follows me around pecking at my shoe. But he'll allow only Chuck to pick him up and pet him. He has been with us for five years.
My mother lived with us for four years, until her death in November 1983. She was an invalid from a stroke and needed my constant attention. So, the nine years since Chuck's retirement have just zipped by. This year we celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary, which hardly seems possible because we're still relatively young. I figured we had it all because we had our health and were active. Chuck is probably in better shape today than he was years ago because he gave up drinking, watches his weight, and walks two to three miles every day. But my annual physical examination last year was a shocker. I felt fine, no complaints, but they discovered cancer in my pelvic and abdominal area, possibly the result of all those X-rays back when I was carrying Susie. I spent some time worrying what would happen to my family, thinking "Why me?" I was angry. But after thinking it over, I decided to fight. Will and determination can sometimes defy the odds. Having lived with Chuck so long, I know that's true.
When Glennis got sick, friends said to me, "If anyone can beat cancer, she's the one." That's exactly right. I had seen guys doing all they could to survive in an airplane out of control, but their best just wasn't good enough. Glennis did her best and won. They kept zapping her with chemotherapy past the point where many people just couldn't take any more, and in the end, when the surgeons opened her up, they found the cancer destroyed. It was her tremendous victory. She soughed out the long ordeal and wouldn't allow herself to be defeated. My wife would have been one helluva great pilot.
I travel around the country more now than ever before. Business and civic groups constantly invite me to give talks. People are hungry for heroes, and I've long ago got used to being credited with a lot more than I really accomplished. My appeal is courage: even those who are not particularly interested in aviation are fascinated by a guy who strapped his fanny inside a dangerous airplane. It's the kind of one-on-one situation, like a cowboy who rode a furious bull and didn't get thrown, that people can relate to. They can't imagine themselves in such a scary situation, and yet, as Glennis proved, there's all kinds of courage that's no less admirable.
I'm glad to see a reawakened patriotism in the country and that plays a part in why this old pilot is still asked to make speeches. We military pilots did our jobs out of dedication, not for money or stock options. Hell, we believed in what we were doing, and in this complex and often impersonal world, it's easy to get confused about what we are doing and why we do it. I don't find that kind of confusion when I go to reunions of my old fighter squadron, or the fighter pilot aces' group, or the test pilots' association. Guys who have been tested under extreme adversity know damned well where they are coming from and what they believe. We get together and lie to each other about our exploits in the old days.
My first months out of the service, I felt kind of lost. For the first time that I could remember, there were absolutely no demands on my time. I could do anything I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. Or I could do nothing. It made no difference. So all that freedom looked kind of empty. Then, too, there was the feeling that I had been dumped off the merry-go-round and left behind.
For example, what does a lawyer do who has done lawyering all his life and is now out to pasture? The Air Force was my life, and it was tough to just walk away from it. Being able to stay current and fly their latest equipment certainly helped my morale during this transition period. But then it began to dawn on me that I had the best of that world-the continual joy of flying without the headaches and responsibilities of command.
People don't change just because they grow older. What was fun at twenty-four is still fun at sixty-two, and I fly, hunt, and fish every chance I get. As a young test pilot, I lived to the hilt, and I haven't slowed down a whole helluva lot. I don't try to jump off a fifteen-foot fence because I'd probably break a leg; I'm not as limber as I was, but I can still pull eight or nine Gs in a high-performance aircraft, just as I did years ago. And I'm not alone: the two best pilots I've known, Andy and Bob Hoover, fly as much as they can. Bob is still giving air shows around the country every weekend, just as he did back at Wright in the early 1950s.
Given our backgrounds and experience, we aren't doing anything extraordinary. We still have our eyes, reflexes, and good health, so strapping us inside an airplane's cockpit is no different from a sixty-year old driver turning on his car engine. When he turns the key, puts that car in gear, and drives off somewhere, he's doing exactly the same thing we do. He's been driving for a long time, and I've been flying just as long. I don't extend myself beyond my physical capabilities, but I still fly demonstrations.
Life is as unpredictable as flying in combat. If the day comes when a flight surgeon tells me I can't fly anymore in high-performance jets, I can always sneak out back and fly ultra-lights. Just like when the day dawns that Andy and I can't manage our treks into the Sierra to fish for golden trout-hell, there are still nearby lakes and plenty of rowboats. You do what you can for as long as you can, and when you finally can't, you do the next best thing. You back up but you don't give up. I'm one of the fortunate retirees who has plenty of reasons for wanting to extend my longevity.
I get a lot of personal pleasure out of flying an F-20, but I know too many people who have erected barriers, real brick walls, just because they have gray hair, and prematurely cut themselves off from lifelong enjoyments by thinking, "I'm too old to do this or that-that's for younger people." Living to a ripe old age is not an end in itself, the trick is to enjoy the years remaining. And unlike flying, learning how to take pleasure from living can't be taught. Unfortunately, many people do not consider fun an important item on their daily agenda. For me that was always high priority in whatever I was doing.