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Smile High Club book by Author Garth WallaceSmile High Club book by Author Garth Wallace
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Smile High Club book by Garth Wallace

Quick Overview

The student pilots at the flying school filled the airport air with laughter every day. They were The Smile High Club.
The new volume is Wallace's 11th book!
It's number 9 in his series of heartwarming funny flying titles.

Regular Price: CA$18.95

Special Price: CA$9.97



The student pilots at the flying school filled the airport air with laughter every day. They were The Smile High Club. The new volume is Wallace's 11th book! It's number 9 in his series of heartwarming funny flying titles. SAMPLE CHAPTER ! : “Do you have another bag?" There was pain in the student pilot's voice. "I gotta go again." “Already?” It was the second time in 20 minutes that he’d needed to relieve himself. “Yeah,” he grimaced. “Coming right up.” I reached into the pocket behind his seat and pulled out a sick sack. “Here you go.” The stocky lumberjack grabbed the bag, snapped it open and stuffed it between his legs. The sound of liquid tinkling onto paper was immediate. “Ahhh...” he sighed. We were airborne on his first flying lesson. I flew the Cessna 172 from the right seat and idly checked out the autumn landscape below while Mr. Go-go finished making himself happy. A few farmers were busy with the last of their harvesting. “Half,” the bushman announced, holding up the bag. The first sack sat on the floor behind us. It was three quarters full. I had put it there after gingerly folding the top over and clamping it closed with the wire tabs. “Here you go,” he said. “You fold this time. It’s part of the lesson. See if you can close it without spilling any.” “Hee, hee.” He giggled and looked around. “How about I chuck it out the window?” “No, don’t do that.” “Why not?” “You might hit someone. We don’t want a yellow-headed farmer reporting us.” He started to laugh. “Yellow-headed farmer, hee, that’s funny... hee, hee... yellow-hea... haa, har...!” His whole body shook, including the hand holding the bag. “Hee, harrrr, ha, ha... oh... *@#+%!” I jammed my knees against the control column to hold it and grabbed the dripping sack with both hands. “Yellow-headed! Har, har, har!” I was in the flying school office when this grubby Paul Bunyan had clomped through the door. He looked like a Viking returning from a year of hard pillaging. He was dressed in a dirty fleece vest that hung in tatters over a faded and torn plaid shirt. A pair of battered canvas pants was stuffed into unlaced workboots. Wild blond hair topped a well-scarred face. The smell of gas fumes and stale woodsmoke rolled across the room. The newcomer squared his stance like he was about to swing an ax. He laughed nervously as his jaw worked a sucker stick around in his mouth. “Hee, hee, hee.” “Good afternoon,” our receptionist said from behind the flight desk. “Welcome to The Flying Circus.” Leanne Rains appeared unfazed by this tough-looking character looming in front of her. The middle-aged housewife had survived teaching at an inner-city school. She spoke to the man as if he was a valued customer. “Hee, hee,” the woodsman chuckled. “I need a pilot licence.” His words slurred as he tried not to lose the sucker stick. Leanne looked toward me. I stood up from my seat at a table beside the window and introduced myself. “You’ve come to the right place,” I said, forcing a smile. I decided that this roughneck had to be a pilot dreamer with no money. I kept my impression to myself. “Leif Spklevck,” he replied. He flexed a muscled right arm and crushed my hand in a shake. “I run a fishin’ camp in northern Quebec, you know. I pay for floatplanes to fly customers into the bush, hee, hee. I wanna fly them myself.” I tucked my throbbing hand under my other arm and invited Leif with the unpronounceable last name to sit at the table. Leanne handed me copies of our pilot course outlines over the counter. I reviewed them briefly with the man and pointed to the dollar figures at the bottom, knowing they would be out of his league. “You can pay as you go,” I said. “Hee, hee, time and money ain’t no problem,” Leif replied. He stood up, dug two meaty hands into his jeans pockets and pulled out several fistfuls of crumpled money. “Here,” he said, piling them on the table. The bills were mostly hundreds and fifties. “You don’t have to pay for everything up front,” I blurted out. I looked to see if Leanne was vaulting over the counter to grab me by the throat. She paid our bills. “Hee, hee,” Leif chuckled. “Better get it while you kin.” Leanne stayed behind the counter but I could see her head nodding in agreement. “How much is this?” I asked. “I have no idea.” He pulled the sucker stick out of his mouth and waved it at the pile. “It’s cigarette money, hee, hee. Kin you count it while I go pee?” “Sure.” The office was a small, portable building. It served as a classroom, waiting room and lounge. A tiny washroom was partitioned off in the back corner. Leif clomped flat-footed toward it. Leanne came around the end of the counter and smiled. “I’ll take care of these,” she said. She lifted the hem of her dress and swept the money into it without waiting for my reply. “Well done,” I said with a smirk. “Get it while you kin,” she replied, mimicking the lumberjack’s rough speech. Leif didn’t bother to close the washroom door. Four other people in the room shared the sound of his relief. There was no flush. He thumped back to the table and sat down. “That’s better,” he grinned. I gave him a big smile. The dollars proved that maybe he wasn’t wasting our time. “Our receptionist is counting your money,” I said. “When would you like to start your lessons?” Leif reached into a pocket and pulled out a watch on a broken metal band. He looked at it carefully. “Now,” he grinned. His reply meant that I had to fly with him. I was the only instructor available. “We’ll need at least an hour and a half for your first lesson. How much time do you have?” “Until March when I go back to the camp,” he replied. “I’m stayin’ at the in-laws in town with the wife and kids for the winter, eh?” Then he chuckled, “Hee, hee. You’ll have trouble gettin’ rid of me.”

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SKU 788

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