With the war over, a hometown boy who'd been a fighter pilot came back to run the airport. He still wore his leather flight jacket with a faded picture of a tiger painted on the back. I called him "funny face", my childish attempt to attract his attention because I liked his broad and welcoming smile. Years later the airport was renamed in his honor. Rushenberg Field still operates today
Flush from the post-war economic boom, Dad bought his first airplane, a 1946 cream and red Taylorcraft BC-12D. I remember exactly how the plane looked and how it felt to settle into the seat next to him. I recall the anticipation stirring in the pit of my stomach as we waited for someone to prime the propeller and yell out above the noise of the wind and the engine, "all clear", as he waved us out onto the runway. I recall the instant the wheels left the ground, that first gentle lift into the air, and a magic I didn't understand moved us skyward.
The plane grew small as the earth retreated below us. Blue sky surrounded us, the sun so bright that I had to look away from its glare off the nose of the plane. Gradually my ears adjusted to the altitude, the roar of the engine, and the air rushing over the wings and the fuselage. I looked down at the farms below us, my eyes tracking the highway that led into town. Then I saw the swimming pool, the grade school, and finally our house. The little plane banked deeply as we circled. I held onto the edge of my seat and looked out the window at my side, which was now almost beneath me. The roof of our house loomed large below us, and then Dad pulled the plane out of the circling turn and dipped the wings in greeting. He turned his head towards me, the gold rim of his glasses glinting in the sunlight, and he grinned at the show we'd put on for the groundlings.
Fifty years later, after the death of my oldest brother, who soloed at the age of sixteen and never lost his fascination with small planes, I looked up into the blue sky of a late afternoon in July to see a plane flying loops and rolls over his house in Harlan. A friend was up in his stunt plane performing aerobatics to honor my brother's memory with a heartbreakingly stunning show. The tradition of airplanes communicating with the earth bound goes on.
Old-time pilots speak reverently of those first post-war private planes like our Taylorcraft, built for the fun and wonder of flying. That first summer of flight Dad and I flew around the state on his business trips. I don't remember why I was chosen over my two older brothers for this honor. I do know that I loved to sit next to him in the cockpit of that remarkable machine as we sped through the air, watching the wispy clouds roll by and gazing down at the lush Iowa farmland. Often the hum of the engine lulled me to sleep, and I awoke only when the wheels touched down. Another gentle, soft landing that we knew was being watched and critiqued by the airport regulars who stood at the edge of the runway waiting, as we often had done, for the next plane to land.
©Margaret Cullison for SeniorWomen.com
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