Philip Handleman
by Philip Handleman
The transformative dream of flight first blossomed in turn-of-the-century Dayton, a bastion of the Midwest. The bicycle shop operated there by the pair of unheralded brothers was the nexus of the unfolding revolution.
Humankind’s eternal yearning to frolic with unfettered birds, to soar in the sky like free spirits absent bother or restraint as if unshackled from the drudgery of the mundane, had eluded the most credentialed and titled experts. Professors, scientists, and engineers at prestigious educational institutions, government agencies, and commercial organizations either failed to grasp the enabling technologies or dismissed the whole idea as utopian rubbish.
Wilbur Wright’s formal schooling went only as far as a high school diploma. Younger brother Orville didn’t even reach that level, opting to shun the classroom in favor of real-world experience. Despite their comparative limitations, the two determined entrepreneurs applied their sharp intellect, mechanical know-how, common sense, self-confidence, and ingenious insight to the challenges that confronted them. They wisely determined that to be successful an airplane would require wings, power, and a control system.
Their staggered flight test program necessitated learning to fly. Skills were gradually acquired in glider experiments along a favored shoreline that featured stiff ocean breezes amid secluded beaches. That meant packing up for yearly sojourns each autumn for four consecutive years. When, at last, sustained and controlled flight by humans in a powered machine was finally achieved, the brothers arranged for the use of a 100-acre dairy farm back home in Dayton. On that hallowed ground known as Huffman Prairie (after the accommodating local banker and property owner who asked only that the brothers not disturb the cows), the first rickety contraption evolved methodically into a truly practical airplane.
The momentous legacy is palpable for that fledgling flying field is cast now in the daily shadow of the gangling control tower of the far larger and encompassing airfield that hosts the world’s preeminent aerospace research enterprise and that fittingly bears the Wright name. Coasting overhead with regularity are massive cargo planes whose cabin length exceeds the distance covered by the brothers in their maiden flight. Fighter jets often traverse the airspace, too, and they routinely dash at speeds exponentially greater than any attained by the brothers.
The flush carpet of pastures and farms that dominated the region’s topography was ideally suited to enable early flights between points on a map. On cloudless days, the vista over the recumbent Midwestern landscape was devoid of obstruction. Moreover, section lines, defined by perimeter fences and the growing network of roadways, formed a plainly perceptible north-south/east-west grid-work from the air that, serendipitously, constituted a most welcomed navigational expedient.
Barnstormers, the famed gypsies of the sky, relished summer jaunts across the nation’s heartland to the next county fair, air meet, or flying display. The Midwest’s climate allows for hot days during the flying season, but typically not the searing heat of more southerly parts. Ambient temperatures, of course, influence density altitude, and in that time of lightly-powered biplanes, the flying circuses were thankful for the region’s moderate climate.
Impromptu performances were not uncommon. The roving flyers would do squirrel-cage loops over a town, sometimes centered on the church steeple, and then glide onto a nearby verdant meadow. Having bestirred the prospective audience, the schoolhouse emptied and soon intrepid townsfolk would form a line for rides at five dollars apiece. The wide grins that greeted the showmen evinced a sense of the innocent pleasure of a hardworking people. The joyous times were destined to spice up the lore of this rich, wide-open land, the remarkable inner kingdom.
The sprawling metropolises that rise on the banks of the Great Lakes were havens for flying events as well. Notably, Cleveland opened its large and modern airport to the greatest flying extravaganzas of all time. Every Labor Day weekend through most of the 1930s, the National Air Races occurred there. Legends like the daring Jimmy Doolittle, the swashbuckling Roscoe Turner, and the pioneering Louise Thaden set speed records before overflowing crowds of admiring fans.
In an implicit tribute to the contributions of those aerial trailblazers, on the grounds of that very airport, scientific studies are currently under way into the propulsion systems that may transport explorers of future generations to distant points in the solar system and beyond. NASA’s Glenn Research Center, which is located in an area near the finish line of the old air race course, is named in honor of the iconic astronaut and native Ohioan who, not inconsequentially, received his inspiration to enter a life of flying while attending the storied air races as a boy. It was not long afterwards that he tasted flight for the first time in a Cub at an airfield nestled in the countryside elsewhere in the state.
When the demands of war pressured industry to produce airplanes quickly and in unprecedented numbers, all eyes turned to the manufacturing powerhouses headquartered in what was euphemistically referred to as the arsenal of democracy. Detroit’s tool-and-die shops, machine tool factories, stamping plants, and vast assembly lines staffed by patriotic and conscientious citizens represented the Midwest’s industrial might and unshakable faith. Airframe makers looked to the giant auto companies for production efficiencies.
Ford built its prodigious Willow Run plant from scratch and, under license from Consolidated Aircraft, churned out a mammoth B-24 Liberator every hour at peak capacity. Only traces of the site remain, but the airport has survived as a busy cargo hub. Endeavoring to preserve the era’s glory, the nonprofit Yankee Air Museum operates a static air park on the airport’s periphery. Also, its army of amazing volunteers has returned a few sparklingly restored vintage airplanes to their proper domain of the sky, rekindling memories of a purposeful society’s can-do spirit every air show season.
In so many places throughout the region, the sky shines with lovely examples of a bygone age, of the craftsmanship of dreams-come-true, and of the simple pleasures that stem from sailing aloft in a ship designed expressly to defy gravity and lift its occupants into the pure and regenerative empyrean. The region’s rewarding destinations have included, among others, Galesburg’s matchless celebration of the enduring Stearman, Blakesburg’s comradely gathering of antiques, and, of course, the granddaddy of fly-ins, Oshkosh’s brilliant smorgasbord of flight. Everywhere one turns above these flatlands, here in the irrepressible backcountry of the Midwest, there is ample evidence of the backbone of aviation.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Philip Handleman is the President of Handleman Filmworks, an independent production company based in Birmingham, Michigan that has produced award-winning public television documentaries including “Remembering the Holocaust” and “Our Missing In Action.” Handleman’s still photography has been featured on the U.S. postage stamps honoring the 50th anniversaries of the U.S. Air Force and the U.S. Air Force Academy.
Philip Handleman released his twenty-second book, “Flying Legends of World War II,” in January.
Philip Handleman has been an active private pilot for 40 years and currently owns and flies two aircraft of military lineage, including a 1943 220 hp Boeing Stearman N2S-3 biplane, and a Cessna 180H, which has been restored as a U.S. Air Force U-17C.
Handleman and his wife, Mary, own Handleman Sky Ranch in Birmingham, Michigan.
