Working Cub Poem

WORKING CUB

She sits down in the dirt,
No city pavement near

Her big tires coated with mud
With a Scott Thirty-two hundred, does she steer

She'll teach you the trade
Of flyin' the Alaskan bush

Though in really deep mud
You might have to get out and push

She's that little yellow cub
The one everybody knows

The gal who teaches the secrets of tail-wheel flying
Regardless of which way the coastal wind blows

Her paying clients are many,
But her true students are few

Then there's the ones who've been fooled
By the little tricks that she knew

They have bounced her off gravel
And dropped on flare into mud

Then they tried a steep banking turn
Into our thick Alaskan scud

She's had broken cowling struts
And oil down her bottom

But she is strong as her tubing's steel
And her fabrics' new and not rotten

She's a workhorse, not a showgirl
More like a Mustang, than a Morgan

Half a ton of American fabric and steel
Sitting ready for duty, on this sunny morning.

Alex Clark 05/2005

The poor thing just had another cowling strut busted by a local dentist who was already signed off as being tailwheel competent. Not so...
I have never seen anyone so intent on whipping the plane into the runway over and over. And then ask what what wrong with the plane...
Thank goodness for cub landing gear and soft gravel.

Alex,

Another great poem. All but the yellow cub part. I like RED. :lol: :lol: :lol:

A little more of this and you can join the rest of the artistic crowd hawking their wares on the Spit. What is it about the air in Homer that draws you guys like flies? Views of the bay or end of the road syndrome?

Actually I am originally from here.
The Homer Family movie theater was the biggest room I had ever been inside until I went to college in Eastern Oregon.

Back then it was a working homestead town.
People fished, logged, ran cattle, cut lumber, flew cargo plane and built boats. Most were WWII vets who had homesteaded or bought land in the 1940s and 50s.
We even had ammo reloading class in highschool and we used to go shooting with the local cops up at the gravel pit.

Then the goof-balls started moving in.

Now the town that grew up in, is just a memory.

"And the whole damn town was full of crispy critters and the mayor was a space cadet.."

Ah, that explains it. I suppose I should have known that given I used to hang out up the road in the summer at Happy Valley, between AP and Ninilchik (come 2nd run King days). Those locals were homestead and WW2 towns as well.

I always enjoy making it down to Homer just to say I did (and view the bay) though have sworn off the salmon pond (another story) and last time ate at some place on the hill above the float lake that was granola to the extreme. Moonbeam or something? Shudder... I guess I'd rather fly in to the McDonalds. Saw a cool Helio and Cub parked there together once.

Alex, you live in a beautiful place, I love how the snowy peaks shine and water sparkles on a sunny day...there by the shores of Kachemak Bay.

I loved the yellow cub part. Except I refer to my baby as a he...actually as Romeo.

Your poem made me close my eyes and take a deep breath. Does anyone talk to their cub like I do and maybe give an affectionate pat here and there? That probably sounds very strange, but when I open that hangar door, and Romeo is sitting there all proud and ready to fly, I swear! HE has a life of his own!!! And I climb into that plane, and it's like being with a best friend. It's so comfortable!

My first Cub was Big Red
Second was Miss Margarettaville
Third was Little Sweetie
Now the present cub is the Dragon Lady

And yes they all talk back....


I just asked one of my student pilot buddies to name his C-170B-180.
He calls her Concubine One. I'm sure his wife is thrilled.