From the Sandbox to the Clouds

By Robert L. McDaniel

Bob McDaniel grew up hanging over the airport fence. His dream of flying began as a child in a sandbox and propelled him into the clouds. This true story chronicles his journey from a Cessna 150 to supersonic flight and back, covering military operations in war zones and peaceful flights at thirty miles per hour in a powered parachute. His civilian career is covered from his early days working as a lineboy to pay for his flying lessons, to his current position as director of one of the busiest reliever airports in the nation. This is a flying story, a war story, and a bit of a love story, as it illustrates the sacrifices required of military families. This entertaining autobiography will inspire others to dream what may seem impossible, to believe they are achievable, and to reach out and fulfill those dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Eagle Aviation, L.L.C.
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9780985494810

Book preview

From the Sandbox to the Clouds

From the Sandbox to the Clouds

By Robert L. McDaniel

Colonel, USAF (Retired)

Copyright © 2015 by Robert L. McDaniel

All rights reserved.  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2012

ISBN 978-0-9854948-1-0

Published 2015 by Silver Eagle Aviation, L.L.C.

225 Carl Street, Columbia, Illinois 62236-1907

http://www.silvereagleaviation.com/

Cover photograph by Robert J. McDaniel

INTRODUCTION

I’ve always been more of a doer than a talker.  If asked, I will tell you a story, but I quickly become silent if no one is listening. 

For years, friends and family members have urged me to write this book.  They have suggested that I should record my experiences and share them with others.  I enjoy writing, but have always been too busy to begin such a large undertaking.  After all, who would be interested in hearing my stories anyway? 

I’m still too busy enjoying my flying, running one of the nation’s busiest general aviation airports, and enjoying a little time with my family…not to mention the many tasks waiting on my honey-do list that have never been started, such as cleaning out the garage or painting the house.  After much encouragement, I’ve finally put pencil to paper (actually, it’s fingers to keyboard) and completed that task. 

Readers will find nothing extraordinary in this book.  It’s not a tale of great deeds or extraordinary heroism.  It’s not a great mystery novel that will keep you spellbound ‘til the last page. 

It is simply a series of short glimpses into the life of an ordinary man…a common man, faced with everyday situations, who has been blessed to be able to play a small role in the aviation community. 

This book is dedicated to my granddaughter, Brenna, in hopes that she will always dream of great possibilities, for great dreams are the seeds of great accomplishments.

It is my hope that my story will inspire others to dream what may seem impossible and to aspire to achieve those dreams and more.

It is not enough to just ride this earth. You have to aim higher, try to take off, even fly. It is our duty.

Jose Yacopi

PREFACE:  An Incredible Journey Begins

The morning air was clear, and the sky was a deep blue.  Warm sunshine was pouring down from above.  The freckle-faced, chubby little boy squeezed the cool sand through his bare toes as he stepped into his make believe universe…a universe made of sand that was hauled home bucket by bucket in the trunk of his father’s car each evening after work several nights in a row…a universe surrounded and contained by a large black tire that had given most of its useful life plowing fields and mowing pastures while mounted on his grandfather’s 1951 Allis-Chalmers tractor.  That simple sand universe was filled with imagination and dreams that could only be summoned by the thoughts of a happy three-year-old. 

Within a very short time, roads had been built and a myriad of trucks, cars, and tractors were winding their way one-by-one over the sand hills and through the dark tunnels of the recessed inner sections of the tractor tire.  Nothing else mattered but the buzz of activity going on inside that black perimeter. 

And then it started….  just a low distant purr like the sound of a bumblebee.  It slowly grew louder and louder.  Soon it was louder than the sound the little boy was making as he vibrated his lips and tongue together, losing a bit of slobber in the process, to make the sound for the motor of the dump truck that was lumbering up his sand mountain. 

Noticing the steady hum from above, he suddenly became silent and turned his freckled face upwards toward the sun. 

Up high in the deep blue sky was a beautiful silver airplane.  The sunshine was gleaming off its polished aluminum skin like a diamond. 

The young child sat motionless and watched until the plane flew out of sight, disappearing behind the roof of the neighbor’s hen house.  And just as his attention turned back to the sand pile, there was another hum from above. 

Summer days spent in the sandbox would never be the same.  The trucks and the tractors still motored through the tunnels, but some of the sand hills had to be leveled to make way for landing strips.  And, despite the hubbub of activity within the sandbox universe, equal time was always devoted to watching the parade of planes that flew overhead on their final approach to the small airport, a short mile away. 

The little boy’s sandbox universe changed that day and so did the little boy.  Destiny had made an indelible mark.  His life’s path would forever change, for his dreams would be in the sky.   

I am that little boy.

CHAPTER ONE:  Thirty-Seven Cents

Gi’me thirty-seven cents for this little guy.  We ain’t gonna get rich off him, barked the man hovering over a rusted set of bathroom scales. 

The airport had recently purchased two shiny new four-place Cessna 170s, doubling their rental fleet.  All four planes had been shined to a sparkle to show them off during the airport’s annual open house.  The big activity of the day was penny-a-pound airplane rides.

What seemed like hundreds of hot dogs sizzled on a charcoal grill next to an old washtub filled with RC Cola, Grape Nehi, and Orange Whistle, buried under a sea of chipped ice.  A scruffy looking brown dog was stretched out next to the tub, more interested in cooling his backside than protecting the product. 

After digging deep in his pocket, Dad pulled out two one-dollar bills and two shiny quarters.  He handed them to the lady seated at the card table in the shade of the metal awning covering the sidewalk and happily said, I’ll take three of those cold sodas after they get back and keep the change.  That was a nickel apiece for the sodas plus a four-cent tip, and two dollars and thirty-one cents for my Mom, my sister, and me to go flying! 

From that point, things started happening very quickly.  The Cessna pulled up at the end of the sidewalk, and a door swung open.  The man who had weighed us a few minutes earlier waved for us to follow him.  He helped Mom and me into the backseat and helped us put on our seatbelts.  My nine-year-old sister was helped into the front seat where there were all sorts of numbers and dials and two things that looked like flattened steering wheels coming out of the front. 

The door closed with a bang, and the pilot looked back at us and smiled.  Ready to go? he asked.  All I could do was stare at him in silence with my mouth hanging open and nod my head. 

With that checklist item complete he yelled, CLEAR PROP! and the engine roared to life.  Soon we were moving, or so I thought.  I could feel the movement, but my eyes couldn’t see above the window ledge to confirm it.  It wasn’t long before the engine got louder, and I could feel myself being pushed against the seatback.  And then it happened.  It seemed like the little plane leaped into the air with a giant swoop. 

The pilot turned around and said to my Mom, You can take his seatbelt off and let him stand up so he can see.  He’ll be all right.  Just hang on to him. 

In a heartbeat, I was freed from the restraint of the belt and I rose onto my feet to see the most amazing sights.  There were tiny little cars on little streets that looked like ribbons stretched out across a green patchwork quilt.  I thought how much bigger the trucks in my sandbox were than those I could see moving along down below.  The cows in the pasture looked like little bitty dogs, and the people were smaller than ants.  And there was the lake across the street from my house where I’d skipped rocks and caught bluegill in the summer and had ice-skated in the winter.  It was barely a mud puddle from this magical new vantage point.  Down below us was a chicken hawk soaring effortlessly with his wings outstretched. 

The wing above me tilted down and we started turning to the right.  I knew that we must now be over California, or even New Mexico, and it was time to turn around and head back to my home in Illinois. 

Looking over my sister’s shoulder, I could soon see that the airport was in front of us so I knew it would soon be over.  I don’t know if the pilot forgot about me standing up back there or not, but he never asked me to sit down and buckle up.  I suspect he didn’t forget me as I noticed he would look back at me every now and then with a grin on his face that was probably as big as mine. 

All too soon, I felt a bump and heard a brief screech as the wheels touched down on the pavement underneath us.  After we taxied in to the ramp where we’d started from and the engine was quiet, the pilot turned around and asked, How’d you like that, son? 

Again, all I could do was stare at him and grin the biggest, toothiest grin I’d ever made.  Mustering all my effort I said, That was fun!  Thank you, sir. 

You’re quite welcome, little man.  Work hard in school and some day you can be up here doing the flying.  I’m glad you liked it.  With that he stuck out his hand and gave me a big handshake followed by a wave goodbye. 

The man with the rusty bathroom scales was there to open the door for us and standing right next to him was my Dad.  I could hear the glass bottles clinking as he kissed Mom.  Then he handed an RC Cola to her, a Grape Nehi to my sister, and my favorite, an icy cold Orange Whistle to me.  He asked if we’d had fun.  My sister started telling him about all the wondrous sights she had seen but all I could do was nod my head as I swallowed the cold orange soda pop. 

We walked over to a wooden bench under a nice shady tree and sat down to watch the next group of people crawl into the plane and depart with my pilot at the controls.  I sat there running my tongue in and out of the smooth hole in the top of the soda bottle, savoring the flavor and the memories of the day. 

Thoughts ran wildly through my head as I replayed every sight and sensation of the flight in my mind.  As I thought about the end of the flight I remembered what the pilot had called me…little man.  And, yes, I was sure that I was a man now.  Not just because I had flown, but also because my Dad bought me an Orange Whistle and let me have the whole bottle all by myself.  I always had to share a bottle with someone else in the past.  Mom would pour my share into one of those little glasses she bought at the IGA with jelly in them.  But Dad knew I was ready and could handle it.  He gave me the whole bottle.

Dad was in no hurry to leave.  I did notice that he would occasionally steal a sip from Mom’s RC Cola and give her a squeeze as she retold the story of all the things we’d seen on the flight. 

Little did I know that my life was about to change.  Only a few months later we would move to a new home, in a new town far away, and leave the airport and my tractor tire universe behind, forever. 

Those thirty-seven cents were well spent.  Only a penny-a-pound for a lifetime of inspiration!

All was glorious — a cloudless sky above, a most delicious view around. . How great is our good fortune! I care not what may be the condition of the earth; it is the sky that is for me now.

Prof. Jacques Alexandre Cesare Charles

First free flight in a hydrogen balloon

December 1, 1783

CHAPTER TWO:  My Magic Carpet Ride

The room was dark and so very quiet as I opened one eye and cast my gaze toward the ceiling.  After a few seconds to locate the faint red numbers projected on the ceiling and adjust my focus, 61°F was soon replaced with 4:55AM as the time and temperature displays alternated.  I laid there for another moment and stretched one leg.  It touched the warm soft body of my wife lying peacefully beside me.  I opened the other eye and stretched the other leg.  4:56AM was now showing on the ceiling.

Perfect! I thought. It’s early enough I can get an hour of flying in before I have to be in the office. 

As I moved about, slowly waking up, stretching one limb and then the other, my thoughts went back to my childhood. 

I’ve always had a strong internal clock and a knack for waking up right on cue.  I remembered the morning my family started our summer vacation trip when I was six years old.  Mom and Dad sent me to bed early the night before saying, You have to go to bed early tonight so you can get a good night’s sleep.  We’re going to get up REALLY early tomorrow morning so we can get started on our drive out west to Colorado.  We’re going to get up at five o’clock.  Good night. 

The next morning, Mom eased my bedroom door open and as she started to walk into my room, I popped straight up in my bed and almost shouted, Five o’clock?  I was up out of bed and ready to go in no time.

Both eyes were now wide open, and the clock indicated 4:59AM.  That magic five o’clock hour was here.  I slipped out of bed and into my slippers and tiptoed down the hallway to get ready to take on the day.

The next time I saw the clock it was showing 5:30AM as I entered the bedroom to kiss my wife goodbye.  I never left the house, no matter what time of day or night, without a kiss.  The memory of that kiss always brought me home again, as soon as I could get back.

By six o’clock, I was closing the hangar doors while the Rotax two-cycle engine on my Buckeye Breeze powered parachute buzzed smoothly at 2,000 rpm during the first couple of minutes of the preflight warm-up.  The sky was starting to show a golden orange tinge low on the eastern horizon, and the bright orange windsock hung limply from its frame atop the maintenance pole barn a few hangars away.  It looked like the perfect morning.  Great weather and perfect solitude.

After completing the five-minute engine warm-up, I donned my headset, pushed back away from the hangar, and began my taxi out to the middle of the airport to layout the parachute and set it up for flight.  After carefully completing that task, I donned my headset and helmet, adjusted my seatbelt, and turned the key and the Rotax power plant roared to life.  A quick glance at my watch and it was 6:21—the tower wasn’t open yet so I didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to fly. 

After a quick glance over my shoulder to confirm that there were no other aircraft around, I smoothly pulled back on the throttle stick and started moving forward.  The chute popped up overhead showing all its brilliant rainbow colors, like a peacock spreading its tail feathers.  After a slight wag to one side, it stabilized directly overhead, and I backed off on the throttle to prevent it from flying. 

Quick looks upward to the left and right confirmed that all the beautiful cells were open, the lines were straight and it was centered waiting to fly.  One more pull on the throttle lever and the cart leaped off the ground, climbing into the air like an eagle, just as the first brilliant ray of sunshine appeared above the horizon.  Quickly approaching 500 feet, I reduced power to level off and made a turn to look back at the green sod from which I had just departed. 

After looking around for other traffic, it was obvious I had the pattern to myself.  I made a few turns as I admired the clean, dark pavement of our recently reconstructed runway and noticed the long shadows that each hangar cast across the aircraft parking ramp.  After a few minutes admiring my airport, I turned north and climbed up to a thousand feet for the 20-minute flight to Horseshoe Lake.  Along the way, I noticed signs of life beginning to show in the neighborhoods below me.  Suddenly, there was a strong smell of fresh bread baking.  I’m sure someone was probably baking a pan of biscuits below me, but the smell was coming from the nearby ethanol plant as the aroma of their yeast brew penetrated the morning air. 

Passing over the golf course, I marveled at the tapestry of green that lay beneath me.  The early-bird golfers on the course had probably seen aerial maps of the course layout, but I was certain they had never seen it like this.  The shadows cast across the lush rolling fairways accentuated the varying textures below.  A flock of white egrets flying low over the course nearly sparkled as the morning sun shined on their backs.  As I passed overhead, the foursome on the third fairway stopped and looked up.  I gave them a big wave and they immediately all waved back.  They probably thought it was a perfect morning to be on the course.  But it was definitely a better morning to be in the air!

A wisp of fog covered the creek as I passed over the interstate already crowded with cars getting started with the morning rush hour.

This was definitely NOT the rush hour for me.  Although powered parachutes typically cruise at only 30 miles per hour, the slow speed was not the reason I didn’t feel rushed.  Flying above the world under 500 square feet of brightly colored rip-stop nylon is very relaxing.  The craft is steered by pushing on foot bars, and there’s no need to even touch the throttle once cruise power is set. I could sit back, relax, and watch the world go by with my hands free.  It’s a very peaceful feeling of serenity. 

Approaching the big square pyramid of Monk’s Mound at the heart of the famous Cahokia Mounds, I could see some early morning joggers out for their morning exercise.  A mother and her two children were just reaching the top steps of the mound as they heard the buzz of my engine approaching.  I reduced power and descended slightly to make a full 360-degree circle around the mound just above tree-top level.  Again I waved and received energetic waves from all in return.  The kids’ gaze followed me around the mound, and they were still waving as I turned to continue my northward flight toward the lake. 

Just then, I spotted a couple of deer in the distant field ahead.  As I slowly floated closer, I could see another one standing nearly motionless in the field grazing on the lush green growth.  Then another one, and another one.  As I drifted closer, I could see that it was a huge herd of deer.  Some were large bucks with huge racks, some were does, and there were even a couple of young fawns standing close by their mothers. 

Approaching overhead, I pulled back on the throttle and began drifting down over the herd in near silence.  Their heads turned upwards and they stood motionless, but on high alert, as they watched my craft descending from the heavens.  I added power about fifty feet above them, and the sudden increase in noise disturbed them enough that they began a slow graceful gait toward the safety of the tree line about a thousand feet away.  Not wanting to scare them too much, I turned about 30 degrees away from them toward the other corner of the field.  As I turned away, they slowed and then stopped to continue grazing with periodic looks skyward.

I continued toward the lake and spotted another herd of deer even larger than the previous one in the next field over the tree line.  During that one-hour flight, I saw at least 75 deer in five different herds.  What magnificent animals.  As I watched them from above, I realized that was a sight few others will ever get to see. 

I added power to gain some altitude before flying across the narrowest section of the lake.  As I crossed, I listened for the slightest burp of the engine and thought how cold that water would be in the event of an engine failure.  Those thoughts always ran through my head as I flew over water.  It wasn’t fear, but respect, and that respect led to caution that has always kept me safe and prepared.

Passing slowly over the lake, I had time to admire the many duck blinds I had passed over so many times before, but from a much higher vantage point in traditional fixed-wing aircraft.  Looking down from my Cessna, they were just small brown dots on the water.  But while flying low in the open seat of the powered parachute, I could see the intricate details of their construction.  Some looked like nothing more than a pile of sticks piled on top of a crude framework on top of a johnboat, but others must have seemed like small mansions to a duck hunter on a cold damp morning.

One particular structure caught my eye as it was new and still under construction.  It appeared it was being well-constructed atop a system of floating barrels, and it was even going to have a bathroom and stove inside it.   My grandfather would have scoffed at those city-slickers thinking they were real hunters. 

The drone of the engine disturbed a large flock of geese swimming nearby.  They gracefully rose into the air and flew up to greet me as if to show me how to really fly the way nature intended.   I could hear their loud honking as they talked to each other in flight. 

At that point, I knew the flight was half over if I was going to make it back to the office on time.  But that was great as I also knew there was still half the flight left to enjoy.

Suddenly, a moving speck caught my eye slightly lower and to the right of my craft.  On closer look, it was a beautiful and majestic bald eagle soaring over a green wheat field.

He was probably looking for a small rabbit or rodent to become his morning meal.  He maneuvered over the field in a perfect S pattern in what appeared to be near effortless flight.  He must have accepted me as another aviator as my presence just above him didn’t seem to have any affect on him at all.  He just continued his graceful search for prey.

The trip back to the airport always seemed to go too quickly.  I always got a little chuckle out of the first radio call made to the air traffic control tower on the way back.  The controller expects a radio call from inbound aircraft at least 10 miles from the airport.  They use that call to plan their spacing so that the inbound aircraft can mesh with other aircraft already in the traffic pattern flying multiple approaches and landings.  Typically, they have about 4 minutes from the radio call until the aircraft is on final approach.  For that reason, I always added a bit of additional information.  The call usually went something like this, Downtown Tower, powered parachute six one zero bravo mike is 10 north, landing with delta, and that puts me about 20 minutes out so I’ll call you over the rail yard. 

The rail yard was only a mile north but that still gave them at least two minutes or more if there was a headwind to fit me into their landing traffic.  In those 20 minutes, they would have probably forgotten I was even out there without the additional call. 

The line of cars below me on the interstate was now bumper to bumper and slowing down to a near crawl as they approached the bridge to enter downtown St. Louis.  I knew many of the drivers could see me floating peacefully above them, and I could only imagine their thoughts.  Some were thinking about how crazy that guy must be to be up there in that contraption, but I suspect many were thinking how nice it must be to be flying up there above the congestion with no cares in the world. 

And that’s the way it always was.  Relaxing.  Peaceful.  Great enjoyment.

Now back over the city, I waved to a group of kids bouncing a basketball in the street as they waited for their school bus.  From my vantage point, I could see the yellow school bus was stopped two blocks away from them picking up other kids they would soon be joining.  Their game was soon to be over.

Passing over the rail yard, I could see the tracks formed a giant sorting network that allowed the freight cars to be switched from one train to another, using just gravity to line them up, as they slowly rolled down the man-made slopes to join the next car.  It’s a fascinating operation from above.  I doubt even the switchman could appreciate how ingeniously simple the whole operation was. 

As the famous baseball player Yogi Berra once said, You can see a lot by just looking, and by seeing a lot you begin to understand many things about the world and how things work.  What a classroom in the sky this was! 

As I approached the downwind leg of the fixed-wing traffic pattern, I descended to 500 feet so as to remain below and out of the way of the faster conventional aircraft that might be in the pattern.  The cool morning air suddenly hit me just as if someone turned on an air conditioner.  Climbing out on a cool morning, it often felt like the heater was suddenly turned on as I climbed through the inversion layer.  It’s not uncommon to have as much as an eight or ten degree temperature change between 500 and 1,000 feet with the warmer air riding on top of the cooler ground layer. 

Nearing the perimeter of the airport, it was time to begin working a little harder.  Looking left, right, up, down, and all around for other traffic.  Checking the wind sock and planning my final approach to be perfectly aligned directly into the slight breeze that was now beginning to blow.  A slight power reduction and a slight push with my left foot on the steering bar established the perfect final flight path leading to the smooth grassy area in front of the airport’s terminal building.  Lower and lower.  A little push with the right foot then back with a slight push on the left bar. 

It’s difficult not to stop and watch the brightly colored rainbow parachute as it passes overhead.  A quick look to the left and I noticed that a pilot and four passengers walking toward their Citation jet had stopped to watch my approach and landing.  I could only hope that my delicate dance on the steering bars and small power adjustments would lead to a perfect landing, marking the end of the ballet. 

Ten feet….five feet, push hard, but smoothly, with both steering bars and smoothly back on the power.  Then, with a slight bump, the main wheels touched down and it was time to get busy.  Mag switches off to stop the engine so the chute could not fall down into the spinning propeller.  Grab the steering lines with a sharp jerk, followed by a good hard pull on both sides to collapse the chute and get it under control and on the ground, to prevent the morning breeze from catching it. 

It was a picture perfect landing even with the audience.  Usually, as luck would have it, smooth landings are reserved for times when no one is watching.  The worst landings occur when you have an audience. 

After carefully packing the parachute into its bag, taxiing back to the hangar, and putting the machine away for another day, it was off to the office to begin the day.  As I leaned back in my executive-style chair and sipped my first cup of coffee at my desk, I couldn’t help but think what a perfect start to the day my morning flight on my magic carpet had been and how lucky I was to be here still doing what I love today. 

The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? —it is the same the angels breathe.

Mark Twain

CHAPTER THREE:  Growing Up in the Space Race

My great grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Thomas, had an old reel-type push mower.  I never knew exactly what my great grandpa did for a living.  By the time I came along, he was retired.  His work was pushing that mower around his neatly manicured yard, tending to a huge garden he had cultivated by turning every clod of dirt over several times with a hand shovel, and walking four miles to town and back every couple of days to carry home a bag of groceries for Grandma. 

My memories of them and their old home began when I was about three years old.  I loved to visit them and spent the night there every chance I got.  I loved to sit with Grandpa on the front porch and snap his suspenders while I smelled the sweet aroma of the cherry tobacco he had stuffed in his pipe.  Grandma was always busy in the kitchen making butterscotch pudding (my favorite) or making other delectable treats to keep me happy. 

There was always something to do there.  Mowing the lawn was one of them.  Every time Grandpa would sit down for a break I would grab that old reel mower, flip it over so it would roll about easier just on it’s wheels, and push it all over the yard.  When the job was done, we’d sit on the back porch with a cold Orange Whistle soda and admire the fine work that had been done. 

One afternoon while savoring that cold orange drink, an airplane flew overhead.  My grandmother looked up and spotted the plane flying over.  She smiled and began telling me of a time she had met the Wright Brothers and had seen one of their early flying contraptions.  I could tell by the way she was telling the story that she secretly longed for adventure. 

Years later, I had the great pleasure of taking my great grandmother for her first airplane ride at the age of 83.  My grandmother (her daughter) wasn’t going to go with me, but when she realized how eager my great grandmother was to fly she said, Well, if she can do it at 83, I can surely survive it at 64. 

All three of us enjoyed a memorable and perfect flight that day.

By the time I was eight, Dad would let me push our power mower to mow our front yard under his watchful eye. 

Today, I can’t hire someone to mow the grass at my airport until they are at least 18 years of age because of all the OSHA and other governmental safety restrictions and employment laws.  I guess I didn’t know how badly I was being treated back then.

No, despite the dangers of operating a 1950s vintage power mower with no blade guards, automatic shutoff devices or other safety features, I didn’t cut my hand or foot off.  I enjoyed the hard work and learned a healthy respect for the dangers of the world and the importance of being careful and watching out for my own safety.

And I learned the value of an honest day’s work.  For keeping the lawn mowed, my Dad gave me a big shiny half-dollar coin each week as my allowance.  I rarely spent it.  I usually stuffed it through the slot of my piggy bank and saved it until I had about ten dollars so I could buy something really big that I wanted really bad.

One day, the lady that lived across the street came over and asked if I’d mow her lawn.  I was about 10 years old then and my Dad agreed that if I’d be REALLY careful and do a REALLY GOOD job, I could do it for her.  That became a regular chore for me that summer and when the job was done she always gave me a crisp new one dollar bill and something else as a special treat.  Sometimes it was a piece of pie she had just baked, or a cookie, or even an ice cream bar when it was especially hot outside.

One day, she showed me a box of books she had in her cluttered garage and said, You can have those if you want them. 

Her husband, who had passed away a few years earlier, was a car buff.  He had a collection of old car magazines in that box.  Most were magazines highlighting those magnificent new cars of the 1920s and 1930s.  I carried the box home and sat it down in my bedroom next to my bed.  Each night, I’d lie in bed and thumb through the pages looking at those neat old cars before I drifted off to sleep.  I went through all of them several times.  After going through the bottom of the stack, I started over at the top and looked through them again. 

A few weeks later, she gave me another box of books from the garage.  I looked down into the box and could see that these were much newer and smaller—modern paperback books like those still on sale today.  And right there on the colored cover of the book on top was something unlike anything I had ever seen before.  It was the strangely rounded shape of the bright orange-colored Bell X-1 experimental rocket plane. 

I excitedly said, Thank you! as I grabbed the box and ran home with it under my arm while pushing the mower with the other hand.

That night, I stayed up reading in my bed far into the night. My mind raced as I read all about how the X-1 had flown over 1,000 miles per hour.  The rocket-powered aircraft was launched from the bomb bay of a specially modified B-29.  In 1947, it had been flown by a young Air Force captain named Chuck Yeager.  This marriage of man and machine became the first to exceed the speed of sound in controlled, level flight, demonstrating that sustained flight at that nearly unimaginable speed was not only possible, but could someday become practical.

Throughout the next week, as I dug through that box of books, I learned that the X-1 was first in a long series of X planes, a progressively advancing series of planes leading up to the crown jewel of them all, the X-15.  And there was not just one, but several books, all about the X-15.

I soon discovered that the X-15 flights were on-going, breaking records and making new discoveries on a regular basis, and those flights were being reported in the newspapers and magazines.  My lawn mowing money bought many of them as I followed the advancements.  The Air Force created a new set of wings for pilots they called astronauts and awarded them to those brave pilots who had flown higher than 50 miles above the earth. 

I followed these early space pioneers closely and knew their names well—Neil Armstrong, Pete Knight, Scott Crossfield, Joe Engle and eight others who piloted the X-15 to record achievements.  (Year’s later, I met Mr. Crossfield at the National Bi-Plane Fly-in in 2008 and spent a few hours talking with him.  He continues to be one of my heroes today.)

Occasionally, the X-15’s latest record-setting flight would be featured on the evening news.  One fall evening in 1968, during my senior year of high school, Walter Cronkite covered the final flight of this history-making aircraft.  Little did I know that less than a year later I’d be sitting in front of a small black and white television screen watching a man step foot on the moon. 

From the X-1 as a ten-year-old, through all the X-planes, the Russian Sputnik satellite, and the Mercury and Friendship space capsules, I was fascinated by them all and by the men who flew them.  I had grown up a child of the early space exploration. 

The time will come when man will know even what is going on in the other planets and perhaps be able to visit them.

Henry Ford, 1930

CHAPTER FOUR:  Discover Flying

Lawn mowing became a means to an end.  It became the source of funding for every book or magazine I could find about flying and space exploration, as well as hundreds of boxes of plastic airplane models. 

One summer morning, while reading the latest issue of Flying magazine, I noticed a full-page Cessna aircraft advertisement. It showed a shiny new red and white Cessna 150 aircraft flying over a lake marina, and at the bottom was a coupon offering your first flying lesson for only five dollars—that was only a couple of lawn mowings!  My mind raced with excitement.

I ran to the kitchen, threw open the family junk drawer, and rustled through a myriad of items that had no permanent place in the household other than in the junk drawer, so they would be quick to locate when needed.  I found the scissors near the back of the drawer and carefully cut the coupon from the magazine.  After tossing the scissors back in the drawer, I ran to my bedroom to tuck the coupon safely into my nightstand drawer.

The next stop was the telephone stand in the hallway for the Yellow Pages.  I found three businesses listed under the heading of Aircraft Rental and Instruction and carefully copied down their addresses.  Next, it was back to my bedroom where I sat down at the desk my Dad had made for me where I began to write three letters, one addressed to each flight school.  I explained that I had just turned 15 years old, was interested in learning to fly, and asked them to send me any free information available that explained the process of learning to fly. 

Mom worked at a nearby doctor’s office and trusted my sister and me to stay at home by ourselves during the summer when school was out, so we often had the house to ourselves.  She called and checked on us frequently and always made sure we had plenty of chores to keep us busy and out of trouble, and plenty of food we could prepare for ourselves at lunchtime.  That early independence also resulted in a strong sense of confidence.

I dropped those letters in the mailbox on Tuesday, and on Thursday morning our phone rang.  I answered the phone, and it was a man calling from Cahokia Flying Service asking for me.  He said he’d gotten my letter and wanted to call and talk about it.  I told him I had a Discover Flying coupon, and he suggested that I bring it over and he would tell me all about it. 

I hung up the phone, hopped on my bicycle, and rode full speed for the two miles to the airport.  I parked my bike next to the picnic table, in front of a very large brick hangar I later learned was hangar one, and raced up the stairs to the corner office exactly according to the man’s instructions. 

As I walked through the door, a man stood up from the corner table and said, Hi.  I’m Harry.  You must be Bob. 

I replied, Yes, sir, and pulled the coupon from my pocket and handed it to him. 

I’m sure he noticed that I was sweating after the hot summer ride.  He offered me an ice-cold Coke from the refrigerator hidden in the closet and said, Let’s sit over here and talk. 

He explained that the aircraft would cost twelve dollars for every hour of flight time, and he would get five dollars for each flight lesson.  He explained that I couldn’t fly solo until I was 16 years old.  I would need a total of 40 hours of flight time and be 17 before I could get my pilot’s license that would allow me to carry passengers.  But, he stressed that since I was only 15, I would have plenty of time and didn’t need to be in a hurry.  I could take a lesson as often as I wanted, whenever I had enough money, and I didn’t have to pay anything up front or follow any set schedule. 

Next, he started telling me what to expect on that first flight. Then, he abruptly stood up and said, If you’ve got the five dollars, we can go flying right now. 

I couldn’t believe what I had heard.  I quickly pulled a crisp five dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it over to him, and we were headed back down the stairs with airplane keys in hand. 

As we walked out to the grass where the plane was tied to the ground, he looked like a movie star and a war hero all rolled into one.  Harry was trim and fit with a head full of neatly combed dark hair.  His face was tan and slightly wrinkled, befitting for a gentlemen somewhere in his early-to mid-sixties.  He walked with a definite limp and spoke with a soft, but firm, tone of voice.  His demeanor exuded the knowledge and wisdom of the ages, which quickly set me at ease, and calmed what little apprehension I had of what was about to happen.

We walked around the airplane as Harry pointed out its various components and explained what each item did and how it worked.  After checking the oil, he helped me strap into the left seat.  He talked me through the engine starting procedure and the engine roared to life.  As he taxied out to the runway, he showed me how to steer the airplane on the ground using my feet on the rudder pedals and talked about what he would be doing during the takeoff. 

After turning around in a tight circle to look up into the traffic pattern to see if any other planes were around, we taxied onto the runway and applied power to begin the takeoff roll.  The needle of the airspeed indicator quickly moved up to 60 miles per hour, and Harry pulled back on the control yoke and we were flying.  Yes, FLYING!!! 

He talked about everything he was doing and how he was doing it as we climbed away from the ground and into the sky.  The left wing dropped down as he banked the plane to turn out of the traffic pattern, and I instinctively leaned hard toward the center of the plane, as if to avoid falling out of the plane. 

Harry explained how a plane’s method of turning is more natural and more efficient than a car and how the banking kept the center of gravity balanced so that you didn’t feel like you were leaning, even though you really were.  After that explanation, he made a couple of more turns and I began to relax.  Then it was my turn.  I actually had my hands on the controls and was making turns both left and right all by myself. 

Next, we moved