The biographies of famous pilots often describe how they rode their bicycles to the local airport to be around airplanes as dirt-poor kids. They'd haul gas cans in their bare feet and wash airplanes all day for the chance of a 10-minute flight.

Henry and I hoped that aviation-crazed youngsters would bicycle to the Circus Airport looking to pump our gas and wash our airplanes. They didn't come. Somewhere on the way to the twenty-first century, youngsters found something else to do. So we washed and fueled the airplanes ourselves. Then Barry did it while working on his Instructor Rating. Then he got too busy flying. After that we wiped off the occasional windshield. The grime built up on the airframes.

On a bad weather day, Henry and I were cleaning windshields in the hangar. It was how we held business meetings, talking more than rubbing. A stocky teenager walked through the hangar pedestrian door. He was dressed and built like a young lumberjack. His shiny black hair looked like it had been combed for a special occasion. I immediately sized him up as not having enough money to afford flying lessons. He stopped inside, squared his unlaced boots to us and announced, "The lady in the office said I'd find you in here."

"Hi there. What can we do for you?" Henry asked cheerfully.

The youngster surveyed the overlapping high wing/low wing aircraft parked in the hangar.

"You need me to wash these airplanes," he declared with a loud nervousness. "They're dirty, eh?"

"Well you're right about the dirt," Henry replied with a smile.

He put down his cleaning cloth and walked toward the teenager.

"I'm Henry Rains," he said, sticking out his hand.

The boy took it in a bent-arm grip that made Henry wince.

"Charlie Papineau."

"Pleased to meet you Charlie," Henry said, nursing his hand. "This is my partner," he added indicating in my direction.

"Hi, Charlie," I said waving from the other side of the airplane I was cleaning. I stayed there rather than risk my fingers. Charlie gave me a nod and looked at the floor.

"What do you know about airplanes?" Henry asked.

"Lots. I own two of 'em, eh?"

"You own two airplanes?" Henry answered in surprise.

"Yup. I'm buildin' 'em." Then his voice dropped a little. "Well, the first one didn't turn out too good. Designed 'er a few years back myself from plywood but she's too heavy, eh? So I sent for plans outta Mechanics Digest, the Fly Baby. She's goin' to be a beauty."

"Tell me Charlie, how old are you?" Henry asked.

I knew why he asked. This son-of-Paul Bunyan looked anywhere from 17 to 27 years old.

"Thirteen," Charlie replied, "but I'll be fourteen this fall."

"Are you still in school?"

"Not right now, sir. It's summer holidays, eh."

Henry smiled at the reply. "Are you going back to school in September?"

"Yes, sir. I'm goin' to finish my Grade Eight," Charlie said, blushing a little. "I'll do better this time."

"Well Charlie Papineau, we'll give you a try at washing our dirty airplanes. When can you start?"

Charlie shoved up both sleeves on his checkered shirt.

"Where's the hose?"

"In the corner," Henry replied and pointed. "The bucket, soap and brush are with it. Do this one first," he added, indicating one of our Cherokee 140s.

Henry helped Charlie get started while I continued to clean windows.

"How much time do you have today, Charlie?" Henry asked.

"Until supper."

"How often are you available?"

"Most days, when I'm not helpin’ mom around the house."

Illustration by Francois Bougie

During this short conversation, Charlie had filled the bucket with soap and water and began to attack the Cherokee. He scrubbed with the soapy brush in one hand and rinsed with the hose in the other. The airplane rocked while he worked.

"Do a good job today," Henry said, "and you're hired. Be careful that you don't break off any antennas and don't use the brush on the windows, they're plastic."

"Yes sir," Charlie replied without stopping, "I know."

Henry and I continued to clean windows while Charlie scrubbed. We found out that he was the second oldest of eight kids in a family from the Canadian east coast. He told us the problem with building his first airplane was that the plywood was too thick and his chainsaw was too dull.

"She's a bit rough, eh," he said.

By the time we had finished the windshields, Charlie was on his second airplane. He worked quickly and was doing a good job. We left him on his own with instructions to wash the three flying school aircraft. We went back to the office where Dave Michelin was holding court with Leanne, a box of donuts and his dog Whiskey.

"Do you know how many successful flights have to be made to obtain a pilot licence?" he was asking Leanne when we walked in.

"No," she answered.

"All of them," he said and then roared at his own joke.

"Hi Dave," I said, "are you ready for a ground briefing?"

Dave had booked his first lesson for a Night Endorsement Course.

"Sure, but let me get this straight," he said. "I want to learn to fly at night so you start me with instrument flying during daylight with a hood over my eyes so I can't see outside but we can't fly today because the weather is bad and we can't see outside?"

"Correct. Did you study that material on the flight instruments?"

"Do Siamese twins use extra body shampoo?" he asked.

I ignored his question and said, "That's why I had you come anyway. We can do a ground briefing on the material you didn't study."

I taught Dave while Henry did some paperwork. A while later he went to the hangar to check on Charlie. He came back shortly and caught my eye.

"When you two are done, come out to the hangar. I want to show you something."

I had been describing the theory of the gimbaled gyro in the attitude indicator. Dave's eyes were glazing over.

"We're done now," I said.

"For sure," Dave said, waking up and looking in the empty box, "we're out of donuts."

Dave, Whiskey and I followed Henry to the hangar. Inside Charlie had finished washing the flying school aircraft and was attacking Dave's Lake. He had cleaned one side of the brown-streaked white fuselage. The transformation was amazing. The clean side gleamed.

"Wow," Dave exclaimed. He looked at Charlie who had stripped down to T-shirt and jeans. "Where did this guy come from?"

"Charlie, this is Dave Michelin," Henry said. “He owns the Lake.”

Charlie straightened up for a moment and gave Dave a nod.

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Look at the bottom," Henry said pointing under the Lake.

I bent down and looked forward from the tail. The former brown-crusted hull was clean and bright.

"That's unbelievable!"

Charlie smiled at the compliment. "Oven cleaner," he volunteered. "That brown stuff was crusted on worse than a toilet at a green apple growers' convention. The oven cleaner took 'er off. I had some with me."

"You're doing a great job, Charlie" I said.

"Yah," Dave agreed. "It sure needed it."

"I'd like to wax 'er when I'm done," Charlie said. "It puts on a protective coating."

"We'll get him some wax," Henry said to Dave.

"I'll wax 'er tomorrow when the weather is dryer," Charlie offered.

"That's great, Charlie," Dave said, "thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

Dave turned to me. "I like that. How come you don't call me 'Sir'?"

"Because you wouldn't know who I was talking to."

"You're right."

Dave, the dog and I headed back to the office. Henry stayed in the hangar with Charlie. Later he told me about their conversation when they were finishing up.

"I'm glad you came today, Charlie," Henry had said. "Consider yourself hired. Tomorrow I'll show you how to run the gas pumps. When you finish waxing the Lake, you can wax the three flying school airplanes for us. On the good weather days, you'll have to grab them between flights."

"No problem, sir."

"Are you interested in exchanging your work here for flying lessons?" Henry asked.

"I'd rather have the money if you don't mind," Charlie replied.

"No that's fine. Come to the office. We'll settle up for today and then we'll throw your bicycle in the back of my car. I'll give you a ride home."

"I don't need a ride," Charlie said.

"But I insist. It's raining out."

"I don't have a bicycle, sir," Charlie admitted, blushing a little. "Since my dad died two years ago, mom lets me drive the pick-up truck as long as I'm using it for work."