I, too, have flown into Winder, Georgia, with the main goal centered on feasting at the Spitfire Grill at the Jackson County Airport (Short Final: Diary of a mad Luscombe pilot, Jan. 25 issue).

I had flown from Klamath Falls, Oregon, four days of salivating about their wondrous $100 hamburger. That particular day, I’d flown from Cleveland, Mississippi, dodging isolated thunderstorm, being tossed every which way but loose by thermals, and peering through three miles of haze (my Garmin 92 GPS comforted me). Flying in the South in August is fraught with peril.

By the time I got the airplane gassed and secured, it was slightly after 2 pm. Oh woe, the proprietress of the Spitfire Grill had the chairs up on the tables and she was swabbing the deck. It’d been a slow day, that day, Tuesday, Aug. 7, 2007; she was shutting down. I whined a large, unsweetened ice tea from her. Such is the fate of a lowly 1964 Piper Cherokee 180 driver.

I enjoy Deb McFarland’s column. Keep writing. And best wishes.


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