Never in my wildest imaginings did I think Lindbergh would become a friend of mine. But he did. In fact, thirty-five years after I listened to the news of the Spirit of St. Louis landing at Le Bourget, he and I were rooming together in a hotel in Bordeaux, where we had gone to evaluate an airplane.

Me and the Lone Eagle in France together. Remember that little story the next time you're about to dismiss a child's dream as some silly fantasy. My dad didn't discourage me, but I do remember him kidding me about becoming a pilot.

"But son," he said, "you're already a pilot."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Well, after you clean out the stalls, you take the manure and you pile it here and you pile it there. See, you are a pile-it."