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A View of One on the Ground by Stacy Clark January 24, 2007 Pocketa, pocketa, pocketa went the tiny Taylorcraft's engine as it taxied happily down the sun-filled grassy field for departure. Passing its fabric-winged siblings on the makeshift line it made its way unencumbered toward the approach end of the grass runway. From the vantage point of our campsite, before us laid a myriad of gumdrop-colored tents tucked strategically beneath a canopy of mature California oaks. Another T-craft, sounding like Grandma's well-loved sewing machine could be heard out of sight in the distance powering up for takeoff. Suddenly it breezed into and out of our view disappearing behind the treetops at an earth-shattering fifty miles per hour. Effortlessly it climbed away into the clear morning sky; its rhythmic clatter fading to a soft buzz as it flew further and further upwind. A blue and gray one having just arrived made its way to the line. The older couple inside waved contently to familiar friends as they taxied past. Still another was being hand-propped to join its playmates in the sunny circuit. They were all in their element here, both man and machine. This was the way aviation was meant to be, simple and straightforward. No cold and hard concrete runways, no "all-seeing" control tower, no convoluted departure procedures to follow, no mad rush to get somewhere...or anywhere. It was flight for flight's sake, nothing more and nothing less. The flying continued throughout the morning and well into the late afternoon. Eventually the last plane landed; its pilot no doubt anticipating the evening's barbeque dinner. The pilot tied his plane down for the night and walked silently into the campground. Then suddenly, just before sunset, the drone of bagpipes abruptly filled the air. The kilted piper unexpectedly came out of the cinder-block activities building at the top of the campgrounds behind us. Slowly and skillfully he marched down the dirt path toward the line of vintage aircraft. Keeping his solemn cadence, he fingered that so-familiar Scottish tune no one knows the name of but everyone loves. As he approached the flightline with purpose, one could not help but be overcome with the emotion of the moment. This was much more than a "thing to do". This was a mournful prayer; a remembrance to all those aviators who had been touched by these aircraft...and in a larger sense, a tribute to every aviator that had passed before. As he paraded alone back and forth between the two rows of winged machines it was evident this wasn't only a call to those on the ground; it was a resonating song of thanks to the heavens for a life that had been lived, and lived well. The following morning as all but the last rag wing had flown away, a man came to our camp and asked if we wanted the coffee and donuts that remained. We politely declined but struck up a conversation. The man, who looked like so many of our fathers or grandfathers, apparently was based at the field and was responsible for the event. He had been putting it on for the past twelve years. "It started as an accident," he said. The people of the first impromptu fly-in simply stating "see you next year" as they left. The rest as they say, is history. He spoke of himself as a simple mechanic with the humbleness so characteristic of what has since become known as The Greatest Generation. Not being able to afford anything beyond his little yellow and white Taylorcraft I assumed, he bestowed all his love for aviation upon it. He told us about a pilgrimage he had made to Alliance, Kansas many years ago, birthplace of his beloved T-craft. A sparkle came to his eye as he explained how he had met the inspector that signed-off his airplane's airworthiness certificate. And, better yet, he had met the man that had freed his plane's wheels from terra firma for the very first time! As proof, the man faxed him a copy of a page from his pilot's logbook showing his aircraft's serial number and "Test flight, 1.0 hours". The man didn't say, but I'm sure that fax is displayed somewhere prominently in his home. He said he received a Christmas card from that pilot every year...then he paused..."until last year that is." His voice broke as he told us, "Last year I got one from his wife." Unstoppable tears quickly came to his eyes. Embarrassed, and not knowing what else to do, he quietly walked away toward his aircraft. He masterfully propped his winged mount that was no less a member of his family then his children or his wife and slowly taxied out of sight. As one who is still chained to the ground, this is what I saw and this is what I believe: Pilots will come and go...it's the airplanes that live on. Men and women are merely their mortal caretakers. But as long as there's people like that man...perhaps like you, your planes will be eternal. About the author: I am a 47 year old father of three. I was born in New Mexico, grew up in Minnesota (Cottage Grove), have lived all over the world, and for the past eighteen years have resided in California (except for a two year stint in the Alaskan Bush a few years back). My wife, who is from Spain, and I have been married for going on 22 years (she says my going up to the Bush alone helped...). Being 47, I have successfully made it through my mid-life crisis coming away with three vintage English sports cars and a 1929 Ford Model A powered airplane (a Pietenpol Air Camper, designed by a Minnesotan by the way). All of which are in various states of repair or disrepair depending on how one views such things. I, on the otherhand, am scarred for life and a whisp of the man I once was. I'm an air traffic controller by trade, hence the short story above. It happened during a flying poker run/camping trip I had organized. I love your show and no matter where I have been in the world, it has always connected me to "home" when I hear you. But you haven't REALLY heard your show until you hear it over a scratchy AM radio in the bush! It is an important American treasure. Please keep it going forever. God Bless. | | | |
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