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one
September
In each
South Carolina town where I’d lived—and I’dlived in a lot of them—the trailer park was next to the airport. After one more move when I was fourteen, I made a decision.If I was doomed to live in a trailer park my whole life, I couldcomplain about the smell of jet fuel like my mom, I coulddrink myself to death over the noise like everybody else wholived here, or I could learn to fly. Easier said than done. My first step was to cross the trailerpark, duck through the fence around the airport, and ask fora job. For once I lucked out. The town of Heaven Beach washiring someone to do office work and pump aviation gas, ahard combination to find. Men who were willing to work onthe tarmac couldn’t type. Women who could type refused toget avgas on their hands. A hungry-looking fourteen-year-oldgirl would do fine.I answered the phone, put chocks under the wheels of  visiting airplanes, topped off the tanks for small corporate
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