“My father didn’t tell me how to live. He lived and let me watch him do it.” – Clarence Budington Kelland
I heard the sound of the engine first. Looking toward the far end of the grass strip, the yellow Cub’s banked wings contrasted sharply against a sullen gray sky. Turning from base to final, the light tube-and-fabric aircraft struggled to line up with the center of the turf in the chill of a slight, but gusty crosswind. Small drifts, small corrections. The Cub was high at the threshold, and the pilot nimbly slipped his little ship into the face of the stuttering wind. Left wing low, nose down, it slowed and descended steadily before straightening and touching down. I did not know anything of crosswind landings and slips that day.
I was about four years old. Coat buttoned and collar pulled tight around my neck, I held my father’s hand as we both watched the Cub make S-turns toward us. My father always wanted to be a pilot. Like so many of us, life got in the way. For him, a dream unrealized. From that day, standing next to him, watching the Cub with him, I wanted to be a pilot too.
My love of airplanes and flying came mostly from him. I remember he would stop doing yard work and look up into the sky if he heard an airplane approaching overhead, a hand raised to his forehead to shade his eyes. Once located, he would try to identify it before it disappeared, only then returning to the task at hand. My dad has been gone for a long time now but, out of habit, and curiosity I guess, I continue to gaze upward whenever I hear the sound of an airplane approaching.
Growing up in a small town, the airport was just beyond the city limits, only a few miles from our house. When we had the chance, which was rare in those days, we would drive to the airport, park the car, and watch airplanes take off and land.
There was never much traffic in the pattern – a smattering of Cubs, Luscombes, a TriPacer, and tailwheel Cessnas. A few twin-engine corporate types. In those days, only a few planes made their homes indoors. One large, arched-roof community hangar and shop, an attached office, and a short row of small, narrow, hangars with low flat roofs, rusted corrugated metal walls, and hardpacked dirt or crushed gravel floors, was all that was available on the local field.
Many aircraft were tied down in the grass. My dad and I would walk among them. No fences and no security in those simpler times. I would often ask him to lift me up so I could peer into the cockpits through the side windows and, perhaps, sit for a moment behind the controls. As I settled in, with unfamiliar knobs, switches, and a few round dials in front of me, and with a windshield well above my eye level, I could only imagine, “What is it like to take this airplane into the sky?”
Even today, I can recall the strange blend of aromas that filled the cockpits – hints of av gas and oil, upholstered seats of aged, cracked leather or fraying wool fabrics, and air that was unmistakable as something that had lingered too long, blending the stale interior scents, nearby farmland odors, and the trampled earth beneath the airplane’s wheels.
My father worked for a machine tool company, and his job took him all over the world, often being absent from home for weeks or months at a time. When he came home, my siblings and I always craved some time with him. Our house operated on the same 24-hour clock as every other house, yet he seemed to manage to meet all of our needs.
One fond memory is climbing into his lap and asking him to tell me about the airplanes that brought him home to us. I would implore him to sketch a picture and then I would try to guess what make and model it was. Douglas DC-3s and DC-7s, Convairs, and his favorite passenger plane, the Lockheed Constellation with its graceful lines and triple tail. I always felt comfortable and secure sitting close to my father.
When I was nine, my father arranged for my first airplane ride. A pilot friend, who owned a Cessna 170 and flew out of the local airport, offered us a chance to fly. I sat in the right seat, my father in the back. I knew before the flight that I wanted to be a pilot, but that too-brief-moment in the air emphatically confirmed my desire. We flew over the downtown area, the southern shore of Lake Winnebago, the city’s big park, the hospital, and our house, located on a quiet street in a residential neighborhood. It took more than a few attempts for me to identify where we lived among the crisscrossed streets, treetops, and layouts of the roofs, but it instantly opened my eyes to an entirely new and different world.
I did not solo an airplane until I was 40 years old. Like my dad, life almost got in the way for me too. Yet, it was something I felt compelled to undertake and yearned to accomplish. And I am very grateful that I did. Most people would agree that the things you want most and work hardest for in life, the things you are willing to sacrifice for, become the things you appreciate and are most proud of. I worked hard to learn to fly. I am always pleased to be included in the company of pilots.
After I accumulated some hours and purchased my own airplane, I eagerly participated in the Young Eagles program giving rides to kids. I happily did so for many years. The EAA got this program right. I think back to my first ride and, if not for my father’s friend, I don’t know if I ever would have experienced the thrill of flight in a small airplane as a kid. Many boys and girls don’t have dads in the picture, or dads who care enough, or who can make the time, or who can arrange for that first ride. That is why Young Eagles is so important, and so worth continuing.
My dad and his family arrived in the United States from Vienna, Austria in 1926. He was eight years old. They were processed through the immigration system on Ellis Island in New York City, along with tens of thousands of other aspiring immigrants. My dad said he remembered seeing the Statue of Liberty while standing on the deck of the ship as it arrived in New York harbor. No one in his family could speak English. A relative, living in Marshfield, Wisconsin, signed a letter of sponsorship with the government, promising a job for my grandfather and guaranteeing that his family would not be a financial burden. They all became naturalized U.S. citizens and lived good and productive lives.
My dad was not perfect. I guess no dad is. But he did not get many things wrong. He was patient. He could wait for things. As a woodworker, he knew that some things took time, and care, and attention. That is true if marking, cutting, and joining pieces of select hardwoods to build a bedroom dresser, or teaching a child to grow and learn on his or her own. He did not set impossibly high standards, but he did set standards and tried to be a good example. He expected you to do your best.
He was not a religious man, but he was a moral man. He knew right from wrong. His conduct in his daily life, his decisions, were based on values that he was taught, understood well, and lived by. He knew the meaning of honor, courage, duty, integrity, loyalty, honest work, and perseverance. I have some sympathy for today’s parents with young children. Less simple times. Too much technology. Seemingly, more “gray” areas that are not easily defined by consensus or in understandable terms.
His sense of morality and self-confidence served him well. There will always be ambiguities in life, issues that are not so easy to comprehend or where the outcomes will not necessarily satisfy everyone’s needs, beliefs, or points of view. From him, I derived a stronger sense of who I am, the intelligence and confidence to see things for what they actually are, and a willingness to weigh possible risks and outcomes and make hard decisions. These are gifts that allow me to both better understand what to do in life and, as importantly, to act on what I know.
He didn’t know everything. But, he knew more than enough. He was not always certain, yet when he was certain, you could rely on it. He was interested in learning all of his life. He had a great sense of humor. In addition to woodworking, he enjoyed his family, hunting, photography, a good fire in the fireplace on a winter’s night, and playing a relaxing round of golf on Saturdays in the summer.
A good father should consistently show love and affection for his children. What does that mean? It can mean many things. I cannot recall my father ever actually saying he “loved” me, but I have no doubt that he did. There are so many other ways to show love that, if you know where to look and what to look for, and truly want to see it, you clearly can. Sharing his time even when he had little time, sharing his money even when he had little money, sharing his interests, his life experiences, and his thoughts based on those life experiences, all demonstrated affection in their own way. He, assuredly, did love me.
Perhaps your dad was a pilot. Did he choose and lay out a site behind the barn, clear and grade the land, and fly his taildragger from his own grass runway? Do you fondly recall taking a long cross-country trip with your dad when you were in grade school in that rented Piper Cherokee he would fly on weekends, and making memories that are with you still? Was your dad your first flight instructor, the one who loudly encouraged and quietly nurtured you in the flying basics that have served you so well over the years in your professional flying career or in your General Aviation flying?
Did your dad build an aircraft out in the garage or in a hangar from plans or a kit? Do you recall the nights and weekends of being at his side and helping him? Or, did he find, purchase, and restore a vintage airplane that later provided countless hours of flying fun for you and your family? Did he take you to Oshkosh in the summers and introduce you to entirely new adventures, people, and events? These experiences undoubtedly shaped you and instilled in you the self-assurance to take on your own projects or learn new things that stretched your skills and knowledge, and later your career goals and personal horizons.
Or, did your father fly for the military? My dad was a World War II veteran, serving in the U.S. Army in the South Pacific from 1943 to 1945. Military service of a parent often is a point of pride for a son or daughter and fosters a sense of duty and loyalty to our country that is admirable, often resulting in generations of military service from the same family. If your dad or mom wore the uniform, or your brother or sister, or you did (or do now), thank you.
My father gave me many gifts over the years, including his hard-won insights, the value of his experience, and countless great memories. Some of these gifts I recognized early on, some only years later. In my first logbook, I have a cherished signature from my dad. He was one of the first passengers I took for a ride after receiving my private pilot certificate. I flew into my hometown in a rented Cessna 172 Skyhawk and picked him up. I know he enjoyed the flight. We did not say much during our time together that day. We didn’t need to. Looking back, it was one of the few opportunities I had as an adult to repay a gift to him. I owed him so much more.
A good father is a treasure, and a treasure is worth remembering.
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