My parents always developed their pictures into slides, and growing up we'd get the notion every so often to pull out the projector and screen, pop some Jiffy-Pop, dim the lights and look at old pictures of birthdays and Christmases past. This past weekend I spent some time scanning the old slides into my computer and was delighted to see pictures I've either never seen before or haven't seen in ages. One picture caught my attention more than the others. It's a picture of our home on Christmas morning when I was just a month or so shy of my second birthday, and what do you think Santa brought me? Among other things, a toy airplane.
Now I never knew Santa liked airplanes, too. I thought he just flew a sleigh with reindeer. But I've always known my Dad loved airplanes. He can tell you what kind of airplane just flew overhead by reading it's trail. Maybe Santa brought that airplane toy for me to share with my Dad. He was just a youngun' when he learned to fly. But I'll let him tell you the story...
Airplanes have always been a fascination of mine. To this day, I feel compelled to look up whenever a plane flies overhead. I have a silent anger at the stupidity of a TV newsman who reports on the crash of a "Piper Cub" when it was actually a Cessna 172, or when he emphasizes that the unfortunate pilot "failed to file a flight plan" as if that explains everything!
My favorite movies revolve around flying. I got sleepy right along with Charles Lindbergh (Jimmy Stewart) in THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS. I flew missions over Germany in a B-17 with Gen. Savage (Gregory Peck) in the classic TWELVE O'CLOCK HIGH. Some of the best scenes of aerial combat were displayed in THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN. Who can forget the tension in the cockpit between Robert Stack and John Wayne as they struggle to save the airliner in THE HIGH AND THE MIGHTY. (This movie was based on the book Fate is the Hunter by my favorite author Ernie Gann, himself a American Airlines captain back in the days of the DC-3.)
I was a child during World War II and disappointed that I had been born too late to be a fighter pilot. I remember requesting (and getting) a little Army Air Force officer's uniform complete with a "fifty mission crush" officers cap. My aunt had a round, stainless steel kitchen stool which made me, at the age of three, a perfect fighter cockpit. I would lay it over on its side and crawl inside from the bottom, and I could bank and turn all over the kitchen floor as I chased the evil German ME-109's or Japanese Zero's through the sky!
My first taste of real flying came at age seven. I had an older cousin named Stone who was a vagabond pilot (more legend than cousin) who would dust cotton in Arkansas, or patrol pipelines out west, or give flight instruction in Montana. One Thanksgiving, he dropped in "out of the blue" to visit family and told my Dad that he was leaving early the next morning, but if he would get me to the airport early, he would give me a ride! I was so excited that I hardly slept that night. Dad got me up early and I was so afraid he would leave before we could get to the little country airport. I'll never forget cousin Stone's little maroon and yellow Aeronica Chief airplane and the ride we took over Milan, my home town! Like I'd always heard, the cars and houses looked like toys! Stone let me take the wheel and make some gentle turns! I was flying! I was in another world!
At the age of twelve, my parents let me ride my bicycle anywhere "except on the highway." Fortunately, our little country airport, Boen Field was several miles from town but on a lightly traveled asphalt farm road, not a highway, so it was fair game. Most every weekend or summer day included a bicycle trip to the airport, hoping to see some activity. Me and my similarly inclined friends practiced our "Squatly Stare" (looking pitiful) hoping to score a ride in an empty seat. In those days liability was not a big concern and we often got rides.
At the age of thirteen, I talked to Mr. Boen about flight instruction. Of course, you had to be sixteen years old to solo in a powered aircraft but there was no minimum age for dual instruction. He advised that dual instruction cost $11 per hour (plane rental and instructor) and thirty minutes was the minimum for a lesson. At the time I had a $10 per week salary/allowance so I could take a lesson and still take in a movie or two!
On July 29, 1954, I took my first official flying lesson at Boen Field in a real Piper Cub (Model J-3 with a Continental 65 hp engine.) In a J-3 Cub, you flew solo from the rear seat and being a "tail dragger," the nose pointed toward the sky! Your forward view was the sky and the back of your instructor's head! It was so noisy, communication with your instructor was largely gestures and hand signals. Before each lesson, he would explain generally what you would be doing and why. Maneuvering on the ground was accomplished by gentle S-turns for views out the side window. Takeoff's involved aligning best you could, full throttle and raise the tail ASAP so you could have some forward view of where you were going. With all these handicaps, it was still worth it! I was FLYING!
About a month later, I was moved to the "Knocker," an Aeronica 0-58B! What made this move so significant was that this aircraft was "front seat solo" which meant I would sit in the front seat and the instructor was in the rear. I could see where I was going! Also, it looked cooler. The pilot should sit up front.
This routine, lessons and rides, continued for what seemed like an eternity as I crawled toward my sixteenth birthday. I felt that I was ready to "solo" long before time, but the law was the law. As luck would have it, the big birthday finally arrived and the rain had set in! I was able to go to Jackson and get my driver's license, but what I really wanted to do was solo. I had waited so long! Four days later, on October 23, 1956, the skies cleared and I drove to the airport after school. Mr. Boen knew why I was there and rode around the pattern once with me, got out, smiled and waved! Now, it was just me! The little Knocker jumped quickly into the air with just one occupant! I WAS FLYING! Now, I'm really a pilot! As instructed, I just made one trip around the pattern and made one of my best landings ever! Following tradition, my shirt-tail was torn off, my name and the date was inscribed and it went on the airport bulletin board for all to see. I had finally soloed!
My flying continued on and off for the next forty years, interrupted by college, new job, marriage, babies, and life in general. In 1966, I earned a Private license which allowed me to carry passengers. In 1968, I added a glider rating to my pilot's certificate. In 1984, I renewed my medical and started flying again when my oldest son Rob started flight instruction. Of all these experiences, none can compare to the first solo flight many years ago.
