General Aviation
"When all of us were children playing
Underneath the sky,
Dreams and birds and circus rides,
They showed us how to fly."
- Barb MacLeod
The Little Middle Thingie
words and music (c) by Barb MacLeod
We are women pilots, and we love the Texas skies;
We fly Pipers, Pittses, Cessnas, Champs and more;
We fly Luscombes, Mooneys, Merlins, but we still don't understand
What the little middle thingie's for.
Oh, what's the little middle thingie for?
Will it help you get a clearance when
The ceiling's at the floor?
When you're lost in lousy weather,
Will it lead you home once more?
Oh, what's that little middle thingie for?
Its purpose has been hidden since the distant dawn of flight
By every engineer that ever was;
We wish that Leonardo's ghost would come back and explain
What the little middle thingie does.
Oh, what's the little middle thingie do?
Does it make your landings greasers?
Does it keep your compass true?
Does it hold your breakfast in you
When you spin down from the blue?
Oh, what's that little middle thingie do?
Here comes another guy who thinks that women shouldn't fly;
Let's sit him down and make him take a quiz;
The right hand's for the throttle and the left is for the yoke;
Unless you have a stick, that's how it is.
But what's the little middle thingie for?
Does it set the prop and mixture,
Does it tune the VOR?
Does it bolt your frame together,
Lock your seat down on the floor?
Oh, what's that little middle thingie for?
Your head's for navigation and for knowing when to flare;
Your butt will keep the ball aligned, and more;
Your right foot's for the rudder, and your left is for the same,
But what's your little middle thingie for?
Oh, what's that little dingle-dangle do?
Does it keep your pushrods pushing,
Keep your bellcranks cranking too?
If your elevator fails you,
Will it rise and see you through?
Oh, what's that little middle thingie do?
We are Niner-Niners, and we love the Texas skies;
We fly Pipers, Pittses, and Bonanzas too;
We fly 737s, but we still don't have a clue;
What's that little middle thingie do?
Oh, what's that diminutive medial protuberance for?
Does it help you strut and bluster,
Show those groundlings who you are?
On a straight-in, does it help you
Find your aim point from afar?
Oh, what's that little middle thingie for?
Oh, what's that wacky doomawhacky do?
Does it come with stars and racing stripes
In red and white and blue?
Is it failsafe, foolproof, flawless?
`Cause if so, we want one too!
Oh, what's that little middle thingie do?
Please tell us,
What's that little middle thingie do?
Mr. Cool
words and music (c) by Barb MacLeod
He's Mister Cool (wo-wo-oh);
When I hear him on the radio (wo-oh),
I close my eyes and fly the plane real slow;
Oh, no...(wo-wo-wo);
He's Mister Cool (wo-wo-oh);
Got a voice as smooth as chocolate mousse (wo-oh);
Gives me chills and pimples of a goose;
Oh, yeah...(yeah-yeah-yeah);
But when he vectors me around, I lose my head;
I'm tongue-tied and I can't recall a single thing he's said;
(oooo...)
Oh, Mister Cool (wo-wo-oh),
The ladies love your silky baritone (wo-oh);
We call the ATIS when we're home alone (we moan),
Just to hear you on the telephone;
Oh, yeah (oh yeah);
When he says `Juliet' (wo-wo-oh),
I key the mike and whisper `Romeo'(wo-oh);
I long to tell him that I love him so,
But no...(he'll never know);
When he says `Tango' (ooh),
My heart starts pounding in my chest;
I'm pointed east but flying west;
I'm turnin' base `n'
My pulse is racin',
And all my airspeed bleeds away!
Ole!
I tour the TRACON all the time; he's never there;
I haven't seen him face to face, but he's always on the air;
(oooo...)
Oh, Mister Cool (wo-wo-oh),
I used to scan and navigate so swell (wo-oh),
But now my flying has just gone to hell;
Oh, well (oh well)...Mister Cool;
Oh, yeah (oh yeah)...Mister Cool.
CFI Wannabe Blues
words and music (c) by Barb MacLeod
I like to talk, I love to fly;
I wanna be a CFI,
But look at all this weird and stressful stuff I'd have to know;
I'd have to find the ELT,
Get certified for IMC,
And learn to live on sunlight, beans, and ego.
I'd have to strap in on the right;
The thought alone makes me uptight;
The six-pack and the master switch would be way over there;
I'd have spontaneous attacks
Of mirror-image parallax;
I might not find the centerline, might land it in the air.
I'd have to learn psychology,
And know the regs so thoroughly,
Have an E6B computer chip implanted in my head;
I'd have to squirm and climb the walls
While watching students practice stalls,
And fly when I would rather be in bed.
But all my friends will think I'm cool,
When I get hired by a prestigious Part 141 flight school;
I'll soon be flying jets and having money rolling in;
But now I gotta think this through;
There's all this stressful stuff to do,
And before I take that checkride I'm gonna have to do a
spin!
And so to be a CFI, I gotta learn to set the CDI,
Read the DME, track an NDB, do a hold in a TCA;
Oops, I meant to say `Class B';
There's so doggone much to know, you see;
That's why I've got the blues on such a sunny day.
Grey and Blue
words and music (c) 1994 by Barb MacLeod
It's another foggy, sodden,
Misty morning with a ceiling
Laid in ragged folds of cold gun-metal grey;
Seems it's been socked in forever,
And I cannot help but wonder
When the overcast will break and blow away.
Call the ATIS, get the forecast
Just to test my sense of humor;
Yes, it's almost zero-zero all around;
Sip my tea and scribble verses,
Pad around a little aimless,
Finding ways to fill these days down on the ground.
Long before I learned to fly,
The searing months of Texas summer
Made me take the misty winter as a friend;
No, the friendship's not forgotten;
It has grown into a romance
With the endless arch of azure and the wind.
But it's not this leaden ceiling
That perfects my poignant yearning,
Draws my hands with purest longing toward the sky;
It's the perfect blue of heaven
When I'm chained by obligations--
Those exquisite, cloudless days I cannot fly.
Hear the distant engine droning,
Tilt my head and track the flight path,
Follow with a wistful smile as they descend;
Feel my toes dance on those pedals,
Feel my fingers pull the throttle,
Lower flaps, and lean that wing into the wind.
It's the measure of my passion
That I'm standing in the sunshine
Wishing only to be up there once again;
But I would not trade an hour
Of these cloudless days of longing
For a thousand from before it all began.
It's a clear blue winter morning;
Got my chute strapped on behind me,
And the dance of toes and fingers now is real;
Pull her through a double snap roll,
See the earth revolve around me;
Oh, how fortunate and wonderful I feel.
There's a time for contemplation
Climbing toward that arch of azure;
There's a time to plummet whirling through the sky;
And I would not trade an hour
Of this winged, transcendent pleasure
For a thousand from before I learned to fly.
In the shelter of the hangar
Pilots share the friendly vigil,
Sip our coffee, watch the mist go drifting by;
But I would not trade a single day
Of dreary winter drizzle
For a thousand from before I learned to fly.
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