We all lived within a couple blocks of each other in newly developed neighborhood near a beautiful park (with a 40 foot rocket in it).
When my parents divorced, my mom ran away from my dad….with me and my ‘sis and her mother, to Europe. I think she felt like she was saving us all doing that, but honestly, she wasn’t thinking about much but getting the heck away from the tyrant who was my father. I didn’t get to see Stephen much more after that. They also moved about 60 or so miles out of town. I’ve heard a few things about what was happening in his family, but I wasn’t there. Stephen was capable of soloing an airplane by the time he was 12. He got his pilot and helicopter license at 16. He flew a small helicopter from home, out in the country, to work at the airport at 17, by himself. The last time I talked to him, he told me about running out of gas because he didn’t check it, and having to “dead-stick” the helicopter into somebody’s back yard on the way to work. He wasn’t proud of that, but we were laughing as he told me.
Max and Stephen and I were all born in 1955. We were a unique trio. The three of us were our foundation of friendship at a young age. We called ourselves, “airplane brats”.
The only thing I’ve really heard about his death was that he owned an MG Midget and hit something very hard. I don’t really know if it was a telephone poll or another car. His dad never talked to me again after Stephen died. I tried to talk to his sister at the airport later, but she didn’t seem like she wanted to talk to me at all, either. I never found out, and didn’t try again.