The year was 1968, I was twelve. My father took mum and me on holiday to the U.S. and we toured around. Near the Grand Canyon, I spied a smallish helicopter shut down on a raised wooden platform- a Bell 206A on low-skids owned by a tour outfit. I made my dad stop, and ran up to the ship. Man, I can remember like it was yesterday how the cockpit looked with that neat, trim interior and funky cyclic that came out from under the seat instead of sticking up out of the floor. What an awesomely beautiful aircraft! It was sex-on-a-stick for me, and I was enraptured. Heh. Funny how some memories stick with you and resonate so clearly even after so many years. But I will never forget that JetRanger, nor the fingerprints and nose-smudges I left on its bubble (sorry).
Now, old(er) and gray(ish), I haven't forgotten when I was that kid. And when I get a chance to show youngsters the helicopter I'm flying (or my personal airplane), I always see if I can spot "that look" on their face- that look of fascination, wonder and awe. And now I let them do what I never could as a child; I let them sit in the pilot's seat, and I fly them when I can. It would have been an unbelieveable dream-come-true for me at that age, and I hope it is for them today.
I never begrudge the people who ask me questions, and I never get tired of answering them. I always keep in mind that I might easily be talking to a future me.