“Dreams and memories live mere moments apart, waiting for life to introduce them.”
— Never heard that before. Since I just said it, I will take credit for it.
Another afternoon last weekend of archival research rendered evidence of one such dream that became a memory. The dream began in the heart of a kid who loved airplanes and spent grade school afternoons daydreaming of flying them. That first dream became a memory at the old Mount Pleasant airport located where the Priefert Manufacturing complex is today. That was the spring afternoon in 1974 when I made my first solo flight piloting an airplane. The first of many memories to take flight. This one last weekend was a yellowed newspaper clipping among countless files filled with my life’s work as a writer and photographer. Some 60 years’ worth, give or take. It was the story of another dream come true at the same airport a few years later.
It bore no date but was in a file of 1984-1985 Center newspaper clips. Titled “How time does f ly …” it was about a chance ride in a Stearman PT-17 aircraft, the type in which many military pilots in the late 30s and early 40s earned their wings. According to the piece, the plane was owned by Jack Hurst of McKinney and was only a little out of its usual realm of operation when it passed through the East Texas area almost 40 years ago. “Though no spring chicken,” I wrote, “This machine is far from through as it is used regularly for banner towing and instruction at the McKinney airport, and is a regular airshow attendee.”
More like yesterday than half a lifetime ago, I remember climbing into the cockpit that Sunday afternoon when offered a ride. Also like yesterday was the unmistakable aroma of an old airplane, aviation fuel and exhaust fumes blended by the exhilaration of flying in an open cockpit airplane.
The old aircraft began rolling slowly toward the runway at the pilot’s nudging of the controls. Looking at the wing above me reminded that this antique bird utilized wood wing construction covered in the same fabric used on the entire airplane.
A glance around the open cockpit where I sat spoke volumes about the plane’s age. Instead of the usual array of instruments and computers I was used to monitoring as a licensed pilot even back then, everything to f ly the airplane included only three basic instruments.
An airspeed indicator (how fast you are going) and a tachometer (how fast is the motor going) were joined by a turn and bank indicator.
That last one closely resembles a carpenter’s bubble level as a reference for ensuring the airplane’s controls are coordinated. In other words, you’re flying right side up and level.
Keeping them company was a U. S. Army Air Corp placard.
That closely dated the airplane if you happened to know the United States Army Air Corps was the aerial warfare component of the Army until 1941. That’s when it became the United States Army Air Forces (USAAF) before eventually becoming its own branch of the armed services in 1947. My mind processed the thrill this ride was going to be as the old radial engine hanging on the front of the aircraft churned up to full speed. The pilot sitting behind me aimed the nose down the runway and the World War II primary trainer lifted off.
Back in the environment for which it was designed and engineered to perform; she was at home one more time.
Responding without f law to the slightest command, the aging lady climbed, turned, and leveled out with ease.
Watching the pine trees and lakes of East Texas slip under the bright yellow wings, it was only natural to wonder how many f ledgling cadets had filled the same seat where I sat, looking around the same small windscreen and feeling the 100-mile-per-hour slipstream. But where I was up for an afternoon joyride, they were engaging in the solemn and serious business of preparing for combat flying missions in defense of the country fighting a war on two continents. As with all good things, this moment, too, had to end. I saw the runway below turning to line up with the nose of the airplane. I felt the airspeed bleed off as we descended and heard tires squeal as they touched down on the runway. And just like that, the soaring aircraft was transformed from f light back to static history.
Walking away, I stopped, turned, and looked over my shoulder for one last glance. Dreams and memories are indeed f leeting moments apart waiting for life to being them together.
But a kid’s daydreams coming true are the best. At any age.
