I get enough unfriendly mail at this magazine to realize that my 30-year-old turboprop puts me in the fat cat category for many readers. A healthy percentage of these scathing bombs posit that I must be a worthless jerk to hope for a jet. I should, they say, count my blessings and shut up. And, in a very real sense, they are right. This sentiment gives me access to the defensive posture that airplane owners, especially jet owners, adopt. Hey, I work hard. Nobody handed me anything. I can visit my grandsons, who live two hours away from the nearest jet airliner terminal, much more conveniently and predictably. And so on.