Richard A. Moss

    The following was originally published in Plane & Pilot News, July 1987.

    It was on Page 8, in the Aviation Law column, written by Jerry A. Eichenberger. At that time, Jerrry Eichenberger, CFI, CFII, SEL-MEL was with the law firm of Martin, Eichenberger & Baxter of Worthington, Ohio.

    I have been granted permission by both Mr. Eichenberger and the editor of Plane & Pilot News to transcribe the article for this web page, for which they both have my heart-felt gratitude, and that of his daughter, Elizabeth.

    All appropriate copyrights remain the property of Jerry A. Eichenberger and Plane & Pilot News.

-------------------------------------------

The Mentor

    I first met him in the summer of 1966. At the time, I was a college student with little money, but a great desire to fly. I had gotten my private certificate a year earlier, had flown my old Taylorcraft a couple hundred hours, and was looking for a place to get the commercial and flight instructor's licenses. I knew the only way I could afford to fly and go to school was to find somebody who would pay me to do the former, since no one would pay me to go to college.
    I stumbled across Columbus Airpark, a 3,600 foot gravel strip with power lines at one end. Yet, the truly distinguishing thing about the place was not the flying field, but rather, the operator. This was truly a one man show.
    He was the flight instructor, and he had a Champ and a Cessna 150 as his training fleet. He was also the A and P mechanic, the line service operation, the ground instructor and everything else. He lived on the airport. More aptly put, he lived in the small barn that had been converted into the office and waiting area.
    My first exposure to flying with him came on a hot day, crammed into the 150 for my first session of dual toward that coveted commercial ticket. In those days, an instrument rating was not required to get a commercial, but ten hours of instrument dual, with an instrument instructor were. Since the real meat of commercial training came in learning chandelles, lazy 8's, 8's on pylons, precision spot landings with no power, and other such indicia of true airmanship, the goal was to get the 10 hours of instrument time done and behind us, before starting the meaningful stuff.
    Since he weighted 360 pounds, we didn't bother doing a weight and balance. The answer was obvious when you looked at him, the little airplane, and yourself. Yet it flew; not sprightly, but it got over the power lines with at least a hundred feet or so to spare.
    We began the instrument time with needle, ball, and airspeed work. You didn't call it primary panel then; that term hadn't yet been coined; or at least not at Columbus Airpark. We climbed, we turned, we watched the clock, we did "A" patterns, we descended. Then, we did it all over again - for 10 solid hours. I sweat, he chuckled occasionally. A strange thing developed and remained. Twenty odd years, and 5,000 hours later, I honestly don't fear a vacuum failure when IFR. He taught you what you needed to know.
    After the instrument time was finished, we went on to the commercial maneuvers. I forgot what the rules allowed as tolerances. It didn't matter, because he allowed none. Flying was the only thing about which he was serious, and there was only one way to do it. Since the man who administered my commercial flight check, at the big airport, would later give me a job, flying and instructing, I guess I learned more than enough to just pass.
    With the commercial in hand, a CFI was next. There wasn't much to do to prepare for the flight check then, except to be able to do the commercial maneuvers from the right seat of a 150. Unfortunately, the FAA also had an oral exam which covered lesson plans and theories of instruction. On my first try, I totally bombed the oral, and never even got to the flying. The mentor snorted that such crap never kept any student from killing himself. So, somewhere I found the FAA textbook on such matters and went over to Port Columbus again. I came back to the Airpark as a CFI.
    That afternoon, I started teaching in the Champ. All new students learned in the Champ, at least through the first few solo hours. It was heresy to confuse them with radios, electrical systems, and especial a tricycle gear. They were there to learn to fly, and we saw first to that need. He was always saying that if you could dial a phone and talk, you could use a radio. Why waste efforts in such infantile directions? Learn to stall, do slow flight, and especially, land. Landing was a art with him. He would stand at the end of the runway and watch a student land. If it occurred with any crab still in for crosswind corrections, or if the tailwheel didn't contact the gravel before the mains, the student got some character guidance right on the spot.
    I spent about 700 hours in the backseat of that Champ. In the process, I was run through a grove of maple trees when one big German thought it was a contest of strength, rather than a flying lesson. The engine blew cylinders askew at the flange on two occasions, but we made it back with only oil all over the windshield to indicate there was a problem.
    Even though no man has lived who could fly better than him, he didn't like to fly commercially. He loved to fly his way, when he wanted to, not just when somebody else did. So, I learned photo flying, sky diver dropping, passenger hopping and maintenance test flying all during that summer.
    Since he was the sole actor in the show prior to my arrival, he did things his way, and at odd hours. The man never adopted even the basics of normal business hours. When the 150 needed its engine overhauled, we pulled it into the hangar after the day's flying. I was asked if I really needed to study that night, told to put on a pair of greasy overalls and plan to be there awhile. We overhauled the engine that night and had it back in the air in a few days.
    Working with him was a well rounding experience. He could not stomach the ignorant. If you were a pilot, you were expected to work in the shop; learn engines. fabric repair, recovering, and similar necessities. Even most of the students stayed late on many a night to bend a wrench or sew a rib stitch. I don't know what the divorce rate was among our students, but they got the education they paid for, and a lot more.
    Multi-engine training was my next challenge. Like everything else around the Airpark, that was not traditional either. One of the local talents somewhere acquired a Cessna UC-78, known in the industry as the Bamboo Bomber. Originally built during World War II as a multi-engine trainer for transport and bomber pilots, it was made completely of wood and fabric; and looked somewhat like a Twin Beech with a conventional, single tail.
    When you got your rating in that beast, you learned significantly more about multi-engine flying than did the fellow who mastered only an Apache or Aztec. He flew the ancient bird with such a touch you would have sworn that the control surfaces were just extension of his hands and feet.
    A business man he was not, and occasionally he was required to stay just a few yards ahead of the bill collectors. For some reason never quite revealed, he abruptly closed shop the next year and headed for Florida. We lost touch with each other for a few years.
    In 1976, my wife and I were looking for a little airplane for her to fly. When I found a 150 that had had its engine overhauled by him, I snapped it up. When doing an engine, he would weigh, compare, and match the moving mass associated with each cylinder, getting all as closely balanced together as possible. I have yet to find any piston engine that would run as smoothly as one he re-worked.
    Then, he reappeared in central Ohio during the mid seventies. He had tried to run a maintenance facility for a full service FBO. That didn't work, and he realized he could never be somebody's employee.
    So, he found a county airport in southern Ohio that had no operator, no customers, either. He set up shop there, trying to re-do what had been done 15 or so years earlier at Columbus Airpark. Again, he lived in his office, ran the show at his pace (between slow and stop). He sat down there for three or four years, going nowhere fast. Finally, he returned to Columbus.
    By now, age was catching up. Although still a young man as most of us go, the decades of being so heavy, exercising little, and probably eating airport food from vending machines started to show. He developed diabetes. Rather than quit flying, he quit telling doctors about it.
    Next, he turned to maintenance and photo flying as his only endeavors. Although he trained many to be some of the best mechanics around, he never had a steady employee. He did finally start hiring a pilot to fly the photo planes.
    This place was less than a stellar setup, being on a short grass field which is always muddy and soft except during the heart of the summer. I wouldn't even take my Commanche in there where it got its annuals every January. We talked on the phone a lot, joked about the characters of the past, and how our paths had diverged and then come together again.
    When I needed to know the right answer, be it about an engine problem in a case I might be handling, a quirk in my own airplane, or whatever, I called him. I could not get him to send me a bill for advice, although I reminded him that many dollars are spent on expert services, and that I considered him the true expert - the mentor.
    Finally, a divorce between the couple who owned the place caused him to have to look elsewhere again. He ended up at another similar field, southeast of Columbus. He didn't get to stay there long.
    He had the greatest raw talents for flying and fixing which I have ever encountered. He flew like a bird, and I would fly anywhere in what he fixed. But knowing him was frustrating as well. When I heard of county airports which might be open for a new FBO, I would call him, sometimes to lecture him to get a place where he could work in a warm hangar and stay dry during the rainy season. The chat was always pleasant, but he never seemed to want to go into what he would consider as the big time.
    Just after his last move, I got a call from his lady companion, telling me that he had had a stroke, but would be all right. That was late this winter. We buried him on June 26th. He never really regained consciousness, and died at the age of 54.
    Richard A. Moss was an aviation personality the likes of whom we probably won't see again. But more than that, Dick took me from a wet eared kid in 1966 to a wet eyed man in that cemetery when three of his friends flew over the grave site in the missing man formation. If you never knew him, you are the poorer for it. For those of us who did, no amount of riches can compare with the experience.

Dick in 1968	From an article in the Columbus Dispatch, Sunday Edition, 02 July 1978. The young lady is stunt pilot Bambi Lynch.
Dick's final resting place is pretty much at the end of the Fairfield County Airport runway, Lancaster Ohio - Greenfield Township Cemetary
The following was originally published in Plane & Pilot News, July 1987. It was on Page 8, in the Aviation Law column, written by Jerry A. Eichenberger. At that time, Jerrry Eichenberger, CFI, CFII, SEL-MEL was with the law firm of Martin, Eichenberger & Baxter of Worthington, Ohio. I have been granted permission by both Mr. Eichenberger and the editor of Plane & Pilot News to transcribe the article for this web page, for which they both have my heart-felt gratitude, and that of his daughter, Elizabeth. All appropriate copyrights remain the property of Jerry A. Eichenberger and Plane & Pilot News. ------------------------------------------- The Mentor I first met him in the summer of 1966. At the time, I was a college student with little money, but a great desire to fly. I had gotten my private certificate a year earlier, had flown my old Taylorcraft a couple hundred hours, and was looking for a place to get the commercial and flight instructor's licenses. I knew the only way I could afford to fly and go to school was to find somebody who would pay me to do the former, since no one would pay me to go to college. I stumbled across Columbus Airpark, a 3,600 foot gravel strip with power lines at one end. Yet, the truly distinguishing thing about the place was not the flying field, but rather, the operator. This was truly a one man show. He was the flight instructor, and he had a Champ and a Cessna 150 as his training fleet. He was also the A and P mechanic, the line service operation, the ground instructor and everything else. He lived on the airport. More aptly put, he lived in the small barn that had been converted into the office and waiting area. My first exposure to flying with him came on a hot day, crammed into the 150 for my first session of dual toward that coveted commercial ticket. In those days, an instrument rating was not required to get a commercial, but ten hours of instrument dual, with an instrument instructor were. Since the real meat of commercial training came in learning chandelles, lazy 8's, 8's on pylons, precision spot landings with no power, and other such indicia of true airmanship, the goal was to get the 10 hours of instrument time done and behind us, before starting the meaningful stuff. Since he weighted 360 pounds, we didn't bother doing a weight and balance. The answer was obvious when you looked at him, the little airplane, and yourself. Yet it flew; not sprightly, but it got over the power lines with at least a hundred feet or so to spare. We began the instrument time with needle, ball, and airspeed work. You didn't call it primary panel then; that term hadn't yet been coined; or at least not at Columbus Airpark. We climbed, we turned, we watched the clock, we did "A" patterns, we descended. Then, we did it all over again - for 10 solid hours. I sweat, he chuckled occasionally. A strange thing developed and remained. Twenty odd years, and 5,000 hours later, I honestly don't fear a vacuum failure when IFR. He taught you what you needed to know. After the instrument time was finished, we went on to the commercial maneuvers. I forgot what the rules allowed as tolerances. It didn't matter, because he allowed none. Flying was the only thing about which he was serious, and there was only one way to do it. Since the man who administered my commercial flight check, at the big airport, would later give me a job, flying and instructing, I guess I learned more than enough to just pass. With the commercial in hand, a CFI was next. There wasn't much to do to prepare for the flight check then, except to be able to do the commercial maneuvers from the right seat of a 150. Unfortunately, the FAA also had an oral exam which covered lesson plans and theories of instruction. On my first try, I totally bombed the oral, and never even got to the flying. The mentor snorted that such crap never kept any student from killing himself. So, somewhere I found the FAA textbook on such matters and went over to Port Columbus again. I came back to the Airpark as a CFI. That afternoon, I started teaching in the Champ. All new students learned in the Champ, at least through the first few solo hours. It was heresy to confuse them with radios, electrical systems, and especial a tricycle gear. They were there to learn to fly, and we saw first to that need. He was always saying that if you could dial a phone and talk, you could use a radio. Why waste efforts in such infantile directions? Learn to stall, do slow flight, and especially, land. Landing was a art with him. He would stand at the end of the runway and watch a student land. If it occurred with any crab still in for crosswind corrections, or if the tailwheel didn't contact the gravel before the mains, the student got some character guidance right on the spot. I spent about 700 hours in the backseat of that Champ. In the process, I was run through a grove of maple trees when one big German thought it was a contest of strength, rather than a flying lesson. The engine blew cylinders askew at the flange on two occasions, but we made it back with only oil all over the windshield to indicate there was a problem. Even though no man has lived who could fly better than him, he didn't like to fly commercially. He loved to fly his way, when he wanted to, not just when somebody else did. So, I learned photo flying, sky diver dropping, passenger hopping and maintenance test flying all during that summer. Since he was the sole actor in the show prior to my arrival, he did things his way, and at odd hours. The man never adopted even the basics of normal business hours. When the 150 needed its engine overhauled, we pulled it into the hangar after the day's flying. I was asked if I really needed to study that night, told to put on a pair of greasy overalls and plan to be there awhile. We overhauled the engine that night and had it back in the air in a few days. Working with him was a well rounding experience. He could not stomach the ignorant. If you were a pilot, you were expected to work in the shop; learn engines. fabric repair, recovering, and similar necessities. Even most of the students stayed late on many a night to bend a wrench or sew a rib stitch. I don't know what the divorce rate was among our students, but they got the education they paid for, and a lot more. Multi-engine training was my next challenge. Like everything else around the Airpark, that was not traditional either. One of the local talents somewhere acquired a Cessna UC-78, known in the industry as the Bamboo Bomber. Originally built during World War II as a multi-engine trainer for transport and bomber pilots, it was made completely of wood and fabric; and looked somewhat like a Twin Beech with a conventional, single tail. When you got your rating in that beast, you learned significantly more about multi-engine flying than did the fellow who mastered only an Apache or Aztec. He flew the ancient bird with such a touch you would have sworn that the control surfaces were just extension of his hands and feet. A business man he was not, and occasionally he was required to stay just a few yards ahead of the bill collectors. For some reason never quite revealed, he abruptly closed shop the next year and headed for Florida. We lost touch with each other for a few years. In 1976, my wife and I were looking for a little airplane for her to fly. When I found a 150 that had had its engine overhauled by him, I snapped it up. When doing an engine, he would weigh, compare, and match the moving mass associated with each cylinder, getting all as closely balanced together as possible. I have yet to find any piston engine that would run as smoothly as one he re-worked. Then, he reappeared in central Ohio during the mid seventies. He had tried to run a maintenance facility for a full service FBO. That didn't work, and he realized he could never be somebody's employee. So, he found a county airport in southern Ohio that had no operator, no customers, either. He set up shop there, trying to re-do what had been done 15 or so years earlier at Columbus Airpark. Again, he lived in his office, ran the show at his pace (between slow and stop). He sat down there for three or four years, going nowhere fast. Finally, he returned to Columbus. By now, age was catching up. Although still a young man as most of us go, the decades of being so heavy, exercising little, and probably eating airport food from vending machines started to show. He developed diabetes. Rather than quit flying, he quit telling doctors about it. Next, he turned to maintenance and photo flying as his only endeavors. Although he trained many to be some of the best mechanics around, he never had a steady employee. He did finally start hiring a pilot to fly the photo planes. This place was less than a stellar setup, being on a short grass field which is always muddy and soft except during the heart of the summer. I wouldn't even take my Commanche in there where it got its annuals every January. We talked on the phone a lot, joked about the characters of the past, and how our paths had diverged and then come together again. When I needed to know the right answer, be it about an engine problem in a case I might be handling, a quirk in my own airplane, or whatever, I called him. I could not get him to send me a bill for advice, although I reminded him that many dollars are spent on expert services, and that I considered him the true expert - the mentor. Finally, a divorce between the couple who owned the place caused him to have to look elsewhere again. He ended up at another similar field, southeast of Columbus. He didn't get to stay there long. He had the greatest raw talents for flying and fixing which I have ever encountered. He flew like a bird, and I would fly anywhere in what he fixed. But knowing him was frustrating as well. When I heard of county airports which might be open for a new FBO, I would call him, sometimes to lecture him to get a place where he could work in a warm hangar and stay dry during the rainy season. The chat was always pleasant, but he never seemed to want to go into what he would consider as the big time. Just after his last move, I got a call from his lady companion, telling me that he had had a stroke, but would be all right. That was late this winter. We buried him on June 26th. He never really regained consciousness, and died at the age of 54. Richard A. Moss was an aviation personality the likes of whom we probably won't see again. But more than that, Dick took me from a wet eared kid in 1966 to a wet eyed man in that cemetery when three of his friends flew over the grave site in the missing man formation. If you never knew him, you are the poorer for it. For those of us who did, no amount of riches can compare with the experience.