I FIRST PEDALED onto Clover Field in 1952 and rapidly became enchanted by singing propellers, a dancing windsock, the heady aroma of avgas, and little airplanes humming skyward. There were no gates or fences to limit where I could ride my bike, no verboten signs banning this or that. It was a friendly, welcoming place. Little wonder that I soon found myself standing on the edge of a taxiway with an outstretched arm, a thumb pointed skyward, and an imploring look on my face whenever an airplane taxied by.
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