Harry, one of those unforgettable characters who enrich our aviation memories, added fuel to the Taylorcraft, put the few dollars I paid for the 25-cent-per-gallon gas in his pocket and helped us push the airplane back from the single fuel pump. As Ed climbed into the right seat of the Taylorcraft, I had a twinge of anxiety because of his size. Although short, he was rather obese, and I could swear the airplane leaned more to the right as we taxied to the far end of the longer of the two grass runways, spun around, added full power, such as it was, and accelerated ever so slowly toward the southwest. I was flying this leg and didn’t know enough to worry. Finally the wings generated just enough lift to leave the turf behind. Ahead, that bordering hedgerow sure was close and we sure were low. We did clear the hedge as I held my breath and Ed squirmed in the seat beside me. Across fields, which years later would give way to urban sprawl, we skirted Memphis Municipal by five miles, crossed the Mississippi River, located Bowen Field on the outskirts of West Memphis and glided to a landing on the south end of the single north-south grass strip.