First Flight: Wheels left the ground, that first gentle lift into the air, and a magic I didn't understand moved us skyward"
My first memory of my father's interest in flying began when he took me to watch small planes taking off and landing at a grass field somewhere "down the line", as he used to say, from our hometown of Harlan, Iowa. The country was in the middle of World War II, but we Iowans were safe from airplanes that spit bullets and dropped bombs in foreign lands. Rarely were we even subjected to the practice air raid black outs that people who lived on both coasts accepted as routine. My dad was too old to go to war and thus free to indulge his fascination with flight by watching those single engine planes fly, an interest that reflected the growing popularity of general aviation.
The skies over Iowa were clear of both pollution and air traffic and the Midwest plains ideal for visual flying. In the summer months, when the skies were sunny almost every day, no radar or navigational instruments were needed, and the novice pilot had plenty of open space for flying. I must have been about five years old, but I remember standing beside him at the edge of the airstrip. Other plane-watching people stood around us, and some airplanes were tied down in the grass along the side of the runway. We stood for a long time, Dad looking skyward without saying much, intent on figuring out how the flying was done. Probably the seed was already planted in his mind that one day he too would fly free as a bird on the wing.
8 Ball Aviation Flying Club Poster, 2018, right, Facebook
Towards the end of the war, a rudimentary airstrip was built near Harlan, the dark rich soil of a cornfield sacrificed for the purpose. We made frequent trips to this new airfield closer to home, and we'd stand at the edge of the runway, squinting into the hot sun as yet another plane glided down from the sky. The wings tilted side to side as the pilot adjusted to the changing air currents closer to the ground, a vulnerable package of engine, metal, and human that aimed to land safely on the corn stubble field.
We'd stay there for hours, watching the pilots doing their 'touch and goes.' Fierce wind from the propellers blew dust in my eyes and plastered my summer dress against me as the planes taxied past us. Once, sleepy from standing in the hot sun, I leaned against the man standing next to me, thinking he was Dad. When I looked up, I was shocked to discover that I'd attached myself to another of the airport regulars. I usually ended up bored and impatient to go home, yet I never turned down an invitation to go out to the airport.
Soon a hangar of corrugated tin was built on the field, a long and silvery shed to house the planes. Thirsty after our time beside the runway, we'd go into the office where all the other plane watchers hung out. The pop machine opened from the top and the rows of bottles were held in place by their necks on metal tracks. I'd put a nickel in the coin slot and then guide my selection along until it was released into my eager hands. Dad and his friends usually chose the light colored soda, walked outside to pour some out, the dust fizzing with carbonated liquid, and then added a dash of bourbon. I could never understand why they'd want to waste good pop.
The day the war ended we drove out to the airport to see what was going on.
"Peace. We've got peace. Peace at last," the men all said, as if they couldn't get over their fascination with a new word they'd learned. I guess a lot of soda pop got wasted that day.
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