On one of our "dinner" trips to San Antonio, dad knew the crew of the DC-7 we were aboard. I was just in the second grade but thought it was cool to look in the cockpit. On the way home, we were invited up front by the Captain of the aircraft. Once in the front, the Captain asked me to come sit on his lap and take the "yoke" while he looked up some radio frequencies. I was really cool with this and wanted to do a good job of "flying" the plane. The co-pilot dialed in a new radio frequency on the Direction Finder and the Captain let me turn the airplane to the new heading. I thought I was king of the hill. I am sure Eastern would have canned the whole crew had they known a 7 year old had his hands on the yoke with a load of passengers in the back and cruising along at 8,000 feet! To be honest, I was terrified, worried that somehow I would screw up and we would all plunge to the ground in a mass of aluminum and twisted metal. It was a few minutes of racing heart and wide eyes that I still vividly remember to this day, some 60 years later. I never got the flying bug like my brother. At 9, I got a racing go kart with twin engines and turned my attention to speed on the ground and engines, handling, the dynamics of racing. I only "parking lot" raced that thing as it was two years old when I got it and was not competitive at the racing track in Houston. We did race each other against the stop watch which was still fun.