When I was young, perhaps 7 or 8 years old, Dad took Elder Brother and me to an air show in Butler MO. It was just after the war (WWII) had ended and people were once again allowed the luxury of buying fuel, tires, and parts for private airplanes. How I loved watching the airplanes swooping and twirling about the municipal airport. What a show they put on! Then the airplanes stopped the swooping and twirling long enough for us to watch people swooping and twirling through the air--coming to earth underneath parachute canopies. In those days, the parachutes were undoubtedly army surplus--none of the rectangular, precision control canopies that are available, today. That day I vowed to learn to fly an airplane and to parachute out of one--some day. Of course, this was a vow that was made silently. Elder Brother was prone to making my life unbearable with his teasing if he had knowledge to hold over me!
But, it should have come as no surprise to EB or Dad had he heard my vow. I recall roving the sands of Texas in 1942-1943 seeking old boards and nails from which to construct my airplanes. I carried an old purse of my mother's to stash such treasures in, at one time, and an oatmeal box at another. We traveled over much of Texas, living in a little wooden "house" that Dad had constructed on his flat-bed Ford truck--the only vehicle that he owned. We lived in that "house" as we moved about among Corpus Cristi, Victoria, Amarillo, Huston, and a couple of other places. When Dad was able to find day labor work, we would stay in our "house" in a trailer court for as long as the job lasted. There was a woman who lived next door to us in the trailer court at Victoria who earned a place in my permanent memory bank. Noting that I was a "nail biter", she promised that if I would quit biting my nails, she would polish them for me. As I had previously not known anyone who wore nail polish, and Bell had at least 6-8 bottles of various shades of pink, orange, and red, I was stunned that she would make such an offer. How exotic! That was the end of that bad habit! Other than that, my memories of the trailer courts in Texas were mixed. Elder Brother and I (Younger Brother had been left in Missouri with our maternal grandparents) were always ill--catching every disease that hit the trailer court. Since Mom had but a single, galvanized steel tub in which to wash dishes, clothes, and kids, it's a wonder that we did as well as we did. That tub got a real workout when we contracted scabies (the dreaded "itch"). After a few months, our time in Texas came to a close. Dad and Mom decided that we should move on to Tulsa.
Our parents made the decision to settle in Tulsa in the early part of 1943. Rather than staying in the truck, we stayed in a little motel. That stay produced another entry into long term memory: a young girl who stayed with us while the folks were out house hunting taught me to tap dance to, "East Side, West Side, all about the town...." Wow! Again, this was exotic! That was my first and last tap lesson (I've considered taking it up at the Senior Center here in town, though!) Once we were settled into a brand new house, Younger Brother joined us, and we kids lived the life of Riley. When we weren't doing our chores or selling seeds or greeting cards from door-to-door (or pulling weeds for money), we played "war". After all, a huge one was raging around the world, and we wanted to be a part of it. We fought over who got to be General MacArthur (the loser had to be General Eisenhower), who got to be Hop Harrigan (the loser had to be Tank Tinker), or who got to be the captain of the submarine (whoever washed the dishes got to be captain--whoever dried the dishes had to be crew). Our Younger Brother was too small to join in these games of "pretend".
Elder Brother and I were immersed in aviation more than any other war operation. With sandstones of various colors, we drew runways and aprons and hangars for the airplanes that we made from wood or paper. In real life, we could identify any airplane that flew over, or that we saw at the airport. In fact, I was frightened nearly to death one day because I recognized that an airplane flying over our house was a German airplane: I thought that we had been invaded and waited in agony until Dad returned from his job at Douglas Aircraft to let us know that everything was OK. (The airplane was a captured one that was being flown for performance numbers.) And, it wasn't just airplanes that fascinated me. I liked the idea of "hitting the silk" even though I knew that a friend of the family had broken his back in bailing out of his airplane over China. I jumped off of the roof of the chicken house (previously, our "house" on the truck) with my right hand extended above my head with a pretend umbrella that, in turn, was a pretend parachute. Dad and Mom loved airplanes, too, and Dad knew all of this background when he took us to the airshow in Butler MO.
Because I had no car to drive, I did not obtain a driver's license until Dudette was nearly one year old. Just four years later I started work on a private pilot's license. For scarcity of money, it took me two years to complete training, but it was a joyous occasion for me when the check ride pilot in Seattle signed me off. I flew a few times, taking the kids, Hunky Husband, and friends up; but money was tight and I gave it up. Gave it up for nearly 10 years. In December, 1975, I started work for Cessna Aircraft Company as a structures engineer working on the small, single-engine planes. The man who sat next to me, who was to be my mentor, was a wonderful young man, approximately 15 years my junior. He treated me like his kid sister! He talked at me until I joined the Cessna Flying Club and got back into flying. It took him only two and one-half weeks to accomplish this feat. The big carrot was the free flying that was available as a perk of our jobs. Following sufficient knowledge testing and flight checking, we could sign up to fly service tests (to see how new aircraft models or aircraft with modifications operated with "average" pilots at the controls), to fly "re-flies" (to put time on engines of new aircraft that were sitting idle about the field--keeping the engines lubricated), to fly Transportation Devision aircraft (transportation for company purposes), and to fly deliveries (taking new airplanes to their new owners). This was wonderful for us pilots! Flying was a 2- or 3-times-per-week event for me, and I even learned some aerobatics. But I still had not parachuted. And I was sneaking up on age 40.
There were four things that I decided to try when I hit 40: beer, parachuting, rhubarb, and I no longer recall what else. There was a former Army base airport about 50 miles from Wichita at which a skydiving school operated. That is where I went to learn to jump. Unfortunately, I hadn't realized that we would be expected to jump our first day of lessons and did not wear appropriate foot gear. Then events conspired against me so that it was nearly one year before I made it back to the school--this time with a pair of army jump boots that I had picked up at an Army/Navy surplus store. And this time, after going through the groundschool class, again, I jumped. Was I big and brave and bad? Well, in a word, no.
First off, I was a bit nervous because they gave me a 24'-diameter parachute instead of the 26'-diameter parachute that is normally provided to anyone "over 40". Obviously, the larger the parachute, the slower the descent rate, and on average, people "over 40" are more prone to breaking something than are the younger jumpers. I only weighed 110-113 pounds and I was fit, so I decided that it was probably OK that they didn't know how old I was (by this time, 41). Into the Cessna 180 we climbed. I no longer remember how many were in my jump team, nor do I recall whether I was the first out the door. What I do recall is standing on the tiny step, hanging onto the wing strut as we had been told to do, and realizing that I had paid no attention whatsoever to the jump master. I decided that he had probably already given me the "go" signal and I had been so wrapped up in my own head that I missed it--so--I pushed off. Instantly, I was overwhelmed with stark terror. My mind blanked. Fortunately, almost immediately, the training kicked in and I threw my hands and feet out, arching my back, and was relieved to feel the thump of the parachute inflating with air. Then silence. Eery silence, as I floated to earth. Then came the hard part. Not hard as in difficult. Hard as in sun-baked clay. Our landing zone was as hard as concrete. My butt took a beating.
The next week, I repeated the venture. Again, sheer terror. Again, sun-baked clay. This time it was my ankle that took the beating. Week 3, repeat. No terror, only joy, and a feather-soft landing. The field had been plowed that week. Week 4 was as delightful as Week 3. On Weeks 3 and 4, I pulled a dummy rip cord (all four jumps were from static lines so that I didn't have to do anything to get my parachute to deploy and inflate--assuming everything worked right.) Unfortunately, both times I was so slow pulling out the dummy cord (with a bright red streamer on it) that the parachute had already inflated, preventing the jump master's seeing my bright red streamer. The school required three successful dummy cord pulls before allowing one to pull her own cord. I never got to that point. Jump #4, taken on my mother's birthday (she was glad that she didn't know about my parachuting until it was all over!), was my last. From then on, I knew that I could leave an aircraft without hesitation if I needed to (in serious aerobatics, one wears a parachute!) and I spent my money on flying for a few more years. Although I hadn't known it at the time, my last flight was in May, 1981, at Tyndall Air Force Base FL. Events again conspired to prevent my flying for a few years and I've just never gone back to it. But...I may some day. As a Cessna retiree, I am entitled to re-join the Flying Club. One never knows, does one?
P.S. Ronni made me do it. Write this piece, that is. Thanks for the encouragement, Ronni.
I'm equally attracted to and repelled about jumping out of an airplane. I don't even like being on the upper floors of tall buildings. But there is one line in your story that thrills me: "Then silence. Eery silence, as I floated to earth." Oh, how I'd like to experience that, floating above the earth.
And, Cop Car, that's quite a childhood you've got in your past...
Posted by: Ronni Bennett | April 27, 2005 at 06:24 AM
It isn't too late for you Ronni. When you can spare the bucks, you should go try one jump--even if you want to do it with a "buddy". Now, they hook you up to a jump instructor who just takes you out of the airplane with her/him. In fact, I would highly recommend the buddy system if you're only going once. That way, they will take you up to 10,000 feet, or so, if you want. It will give you more time to experience free fall (before the chute opens) and hanging under the canopy. If you make the jumps on a static line as a part of training, they will probably (as they did with me) only take you up to 2,000 feet for the jump. BTW: One pays for the airplane lift up according to how high they fly you.
One of the guys who worked for me at the LAP is a real jumper. He has hundreds of jumps and spends most weekends at it. He keeps a photo of a group jump (about 15 people forming a loose circle in the air) on his desk. He's also a pilot. At one point, he wanted to get into the Engineering Flight Test group--and they wanted him--but my boss counseled him that he would be layoff fodder if he were to change groups just then. That was just a couple of months before the LAP offered "early retirement" bonuses to cut the workforce (which my boss, and his boss--at ages 63 & 72, respectively--took) prior to layoffs that we all knew were coming. Jumper's decision to stay in Structural Integrity was a good one. He could probably get into Engineering Flight Test, today, if he wished. I'll have to ask him about that the next time I see him (scheduled for a luncheon in July).
As to my childhood--it was certainly varied, and at the same time, sheltered. My Elder Brother attended seven different schools in first grade, then stayed with our maternal grandparents the next year and skipped second grade so that he could be in third grade with his best friend. Part of the time that we were in Tulsa, the younger of Mom's two sisters (and, now, the only survivor among the siblings) lived with us. In Kansas City, at various times, that same sister, their brother and his family, or their mother lived with us--in a two-bedroom house of about 850 square feet (plus unfinished basement where all of our family, but me, slept). Dad was a saint, the way he put up with Mom's family.
Dad and Mom worked all sorts of jobs. While we were on the farm, they sold Raleigh products. At one time, Dad had an auto shop. In Tulsa, both of them and my aunt worked at Douglas Aircraft during the war (Dad built bombs, Mom worked on the A-26 as a deburrer, and Aunt worked in the cafeteria), and Dad drove our car (1938 Plymouth) as a taxi. Mom and her mother, after Grandpa died, went to Las Vegas where they worked in the kitchen of a hotel (Grandma cooked, Mom washed dishes). Then, in Tulsa, Mom drove a municipal bus.
In Kansas City, Dad worked as an electrician until he retired in 1974. Mom worked, variously, as a sales clerk for Katz Drugstores, a pharmacist's assistant at Manor Hospital, a clerk for the IRS, a file clerk in a bank....It was Mom's paycheck that financed my first two years of college (Elder brother's first two years were covered by a full scholarship--something that was unavailable to women at the school where we attended). In later years, after Dad died, when she protested at something I did/wanted to do for her, I always pointed out to Mom that it was/would be just a return on her investment.
Posted by: Cop Car | April 27, 2005 at 10:02 AM