Airport Journals


The Perils of Bachelordom	Jul '07

By Cliff Robertson

Cliffhangar

The Perils of Bachelordom

By Cliff Robertson

I am now a bachelor. Have been for some carefree years. Some might say it is a form of freedom. Some might say, "Count your blessings." Some might ask, "Aren't you lonely?" I must be honest. I enjoyed my married years, particularly when my two daughters, Stephanie and Heather, were growing up. Truth be known, now that they are grown, they are even more endearing—our consummate love enduring.

Lonely? Of course. I am not, by nature, hermetic. I like people, particularly aviation people. I have found over the many years that I have been married to aviation—a constancy, a fidelity, a loyalty. Everywhere. When I return to Reno for the air races with my good buddies Barron Hilton, Bob Hoover, Clay Lacy, Sean Tucker, David Lau and the Poberezny family, not to mention the scores of others too numerous to enumerate, I am reminded that they are my family. Even though some of our visits are only once a year, they are endearing and enduring. For me, we "pull a long bow"—go waaaaaay back. Many others are new friends that I have made during my annual lecture on the first Thursday of "Oshkosh Week." Every year, the theater in the main museum building is standing-room only—a heartfelt reminder that maybe this old grizzled actor/author has a few things worth talking about. Of course, like all loyal friends, many of my aviation pals will not remind me just how many years we have been attending Oshkosh. Suffice to say, I can recall over three decades ago, flying into Hales Corners and huddling over a large bowl of Audrey Poberezny's inimitable chili, savoring this lovely lady's culinary gifts and feeling the warm bond of friendship we had already started. Yes, we were "bonding." Lest I slide into my sentimental mode, I will simply say some of that original ring of pals are no longer with us. They have "flown west," but they have left trails of aviation kinship that this addled actor will never forget.

Because of the length and strength of our bonding, it makes every year's gathering at Oshkosh, Dayton, Reno and other aviation meets all the more gratifying. When Bob Hoover placed the National Aviation Hall of Fame medal around my neck last year in Dayton, I was filled with humility, honor and, yes, love. Love for the honor (ill-deserved on my part) and love for my fellow pilots—not only at the Hall of Fame, but my fellow pilots everywhere, be it Oshkosh, with a million aviators, or little, simple Santa Paula, Calif., where I have kicked tires and sipped coffee as we swapped tales (not a little exaggerated).

I miss my daughters when I am preparing for some of these aviation activities that demand a black dinner jacket. Stuff and feathers. I miss them, because I can recall all too vividly their giving Daddy a last "look-over" and helping with those damnable studs and cuff links that required their nimble fingers. That last "look-over" is important. I recall one missed "look-over" just a couple of years ago. I was preparing for a very fancy social "do" at a very prestigious private club in New York City (name withheld to protect the embarrassed). Like so many bachelors, I had not kept track of my laundry and dry cleaning, and as I hurriedly assembled my garments, I realized, to my shock, that I had only one pair of clean shorts available. Not a sartorial tragedy, but a conspicuous oversight. Two weeks before, I had been invited to Pensacola, Fla., to speak at the annual Naval Ball. While there, I had time to cast my envious eyes on the wonderful array of naval aircraft. On the way out of the museum, I had bought a few souvenirs for my then 6-year-old granddaughter, Cinnie, living in Charleston, S.C. I had also bought, as a kind of afterthought, some underwear. I had not noticed at the time that the shorts had emblazoned on them in vibrant crimson, six-inch letters, the aviation warning, "Remove before flight!"

You guessed it! Those were the only shorts I had as I hurriedly prepared for the Manhattan ball. Also, not untypical of bachelors, I had neglected to arrange my suspenders, trusting my stomach to control my tuxedo trousers at the appropriate waist height.

Everything went seamlessly. The speakers, including this misbegotten pilot, remembered their words and delivered them to an appreciative audience. As we prepared to leave the Gothic building, I found myself surrounded by a collection of guests, graciously thanking me for attending and speaking. As I shook hands with the departing, prestigious guests, I was still holding a glass of champagne in my left hand. Suddenly, a shock of horror went down my back. My trousers somehow, some way, started to creep down earthward. I couldn't drop the champagne. I desperately tried to extricate my right hand from well-wishers—too late! My tuxedo trousers plummeted to the ballroom floor. Here was I, the guest speaker, standing rooted in terror in his naval shorts, with the emblazoned warning, "Remove before flight!"

I cannot recall just how I managed to skulk my way to a reading room nearby. I cannot recall what was said. I cannot recall how the astonished guests reacted. It's all a nightmarish blur in my memory. It was a night of infamy. Perhaps the dear Lord protects us from these details, for therein is the devil of humiliation. I hid in the reading room, behind book cases, until the last well-wishers had left the building. Then and only then, did I venture out into the cold Manhattan night and into a taxi.

Uncharacteristically, the New York cabdriver was friendly and talkative:

Cab driver: "How was the party, mate?"

I had no answer.

Cab driver: "Did you have a nice time?"

"Not really," I answered.

Cab driver: "Oh. That's too bad. I figured with all those 'swells,' it must've been a real blast."

No answer left my cold lips.

Cab driver: "That's a nice tuxedo you've got there, buddy. My wife keeps buggin' me to buy one. I keep resistin'. There's danger in them tuxedos. Soon as I buy one, she's gonna wanna go to fancy balls. As far as I'm concerned, I'll stick to my old blue suit."

There was a long pause as I digested his advice. Finally...

Cab driver: "You know what I'm sayin,' buddy? You hear me?"

"I hear you, pal," I murmured. "I hear you loud and clear."

Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He was recently inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit [http://www.cliffrobertson.info].