My old daredevil friend Bobby Newport of Stonewall could figure anything out — if he wanted to. Even in Ms. Elliot’s 5 ^th grade class, while some of us were mastering how to draw (during class) pictures of those little fighter planes the Germans, Japs and Americans flew, Bobby was wondering out loud about which ones had the biggest motors. Bobby knew that the English had installed (in their Spitfire Fighters) a Rolls Royce engine giving it enough speed to shoot down the dreaded German fighter planes. And he was the one who told those of us that the Luftwaffe would soon have jets.

I admired Bobby a lot. Trust? Must have had some of that too. My brother Gerald and Bobby’s brother Bill had already made a name for themselves in racing their dad’s cars. My dad had this big ‘47 Nash Ambassador which, if one were patient and stupid enough, it would do 120 MPH. But the Rocket 88 Olds would only do 115. Gerald and Bill Newport even took their dad’s cars down to the cotton gin in Stonewall and weighed them. Yes, the Nash outweighed the Old’s. Drag races too? You bet. But the Old’s (no surprise) was much better.

In 1949 dad bought a clunky Chevrolet 6. I refrained from weighing or racing this ’49 Chevy. The only reason I can think of for causing me to be riding around with Bobby so much was the temporary insanity that infects mostly male teens during those years. But Bob, unhappy with being straddled with cars that only do about 115 MPH, woke up one morning deciding to learn how to fly. And he did. After he got his beginner’s license, he wanted to buy his own plane. But his employment as a part time hay hauler limited his finances — a lot. Well somewhat.

Bob hung around the Ada airport enough to know there was a derelict hulk of a 1930’s piper huddled in the back of the main hanger. Owned by a mechanic with a lien on from “wayback.” Bobby wanted to buy it, but the old crate could not be certified as worthy. Bobby made a “special” deal on it. He would buy it, fly it off and hide it on a friend’s farm near Stonewall. He did that and soon was ragging me to go fly with him in this unsafe and uncertified pile of canvas and whatever. I finally did.

We took off from John Polk’s hay field and got about two minutes in the air and the windshield got covered with oil. The engine stopped and to no one’s surprise the airplane headed down. Immediately. We landed (crashed) in PaPa Gibson’s hay meadow just east of Stonewall. The little plane was not much more than an old obsolete Cub with all the capabilities of a hangglider. Good thing, I guess. I walked over to Highway 3 and hitched a ride back to town. I told another brain-dead teen (Bob Greenlee) and he drove his pickup out there and helped Bob fix the oil line. Bob flew the little cub back to the Polk place — Alone. I never flew with Bobby again.

Later, Bobby and I both received a notice from Uncle Sam about our need to report and serve our country. Bob deferred a bit and continued studies at OU in aeronautical engineering. I joined the Navy. When I next saw Bobby, he was flying jets for the Air Force. He was planning on staying in forever if they allowed him, but they did not. In a training accident, Bobby hurt his back and had to take a medical.

Life is full of irony. Bobby got married to a pretty girl and had children. He took up farming and lived out his life in a quiet reasonable fashion. I could not believe it. I graduated from OU and worked a few gigs before settling down in my hometown and running a drug store for the rest of my days. Who knew?

I got a call one day. Bobby, driving an old pickup down a country road with three bales of hay in the back, was broadsided by a teenage girl going to school. He died of his injuries. And like they say, who could have seen than coming? Bob in a car wreck?

Have a good weekend and be sure and go to church.

Wayne Bullard DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com