Aviation always has and, hopefully, always will attract people from wildly different circumstances and backgrounds. I took my first flying lesson 53 years ago, near where my airplane is hangared, at the long-gone Aero Services, which consisted of a tiny shack, an 80-octane fuel pump, some hard surface and grass tie-downs and those same old (even then) T-hangars that these days belong to the mechanic. The owners — a used car dealer, a mortician, a lawyer and a spooky, quiet rich guy — hired a very young Hal Shevers (Sporty) to manage the place. "Skipper Ryle" and "Uncle Al," local TV kids-show personalities, hung out and flew there along with three judges, a high-iron worker, two young priests, assorted truckers, doctors, racetrack jockeys, lawyers and mobsters and a couple of ex-felons — oh, and an exotic lady with a bouffant hairdo and purple Capri pants who drove a purple Cadillac and flew a purple Ercoupe with "La Pourpre Bebe" painted on the sides. It simply didn't matter if you were an Indian Hill socialite, a bourgeois west-sider or a river rat from a shanty on the nearby Ohio; everybody was on the same "plane" with flying the great leveler.