My father was an accountant by trade, but a pilot by passion.
Growing up, I often saw how the cost of everyday necessities for us was weighed against the cost of keeping Sis—the 1947 Beechcraft Bonanza that is, for all intents and purposes, my big sister—airworthy.
One particular moment stands out: Sis needed a new paint job, and I needed braces.
The compromise?
My dentist uncle, still in orthodontia school, needed a willing test subject. I got my braces for the cost of materials, and Sis got her fresh coat of paint.
It was an early lesson in priorities—though I doubt my father ever consciously meant to teach it.
His choices in attention, resources, and time made it clear: the airplane always came first.
So when the time came to paint the joists in our hangar, my practical accountant’s daughter instincts kicked in.
Looking at our options to lighten the space, I balked at the price of wood and latched on to paint instead, questioning whether we should even go down this rabbit hole.
More experienced do-it-yourself friends suggested spray painting, but with the Cub sitting inside, and unable to be moved outside during winter, we decided against it.
Instead, we went with rollers—an approach that the restorer, took in stride.
He often jokes that for a homeowner and handyman, he makes a pretty good airplane mechanic.
Now, with the first coat done, the space is certainly brighter—but it’s not exactly pretty.
The lessons, however, are crystal clear.
Lessons in Paint and Priorities
Looking back, maybe we should have listened to those who suggested an easier way.
But sometimes, the best lessons come the hard way.
We managed to keep paint off the Cub, but our concrete floor now looks like a tribute to abstract artist Jackson Pollock—splotches of white scattered in a chaotic masterpiece.
And with another coat to go, our track record suggests it won’t get any neater.
The biggest realization?
The time and energy we’ve poured into this side project could have been spent working on our airplanes instead.
With the weather growing milder, the days stretching longer, and the windy lion days of March on the horizon, flying season is inching closer.
We already have more than enough to keep us busy.
There’s something to be said for knowing your limitations.
There’s also something to be said for pushing them. But this doesn’t feel like expanding horizons—it feels like a lesson in practicality.
I initially justified this project by wanting to save financial resources for airplane parts, but time is just as valuable a resource—if not more so.
None of us know how much time we truly have.
Moving Forward
We’ll finish this side quest, clean up our Pollock-inspired floor, and return to the projects that matter most.
If nothing else, this experience will shape future discussions about what’s truly worth taking on.
Because at the end of the day, the airplanes still come first.
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