I can remember fall afternoons riding open cockpit with people who can only be categorized as family. The magic hour glint of the western sun reflecting off the river. The fiery palate of changing leaves. I can still hear the dull drone of a big continental or Lycoming.
Looking back I can remember the fear and exhilaration of my first landing. The runway would rush up and then a big flare before the wheels kissed the grass. The flights were never long enough, I could do touch and gos happily all day long.
Through the summer months my parents would hosts Pancake breakfasts fly-ins. A dozen electric griddles manned by volunteers in a Quonset hangar. They would come for miles in sleek new Archers and antique wire braced biplanes.
Out would spill men in leather Jackets with brave talk, dirty jokes, and hearty laughs. The wives of pilots often gather and wonder what attracts these men to the sky again and again. Never a wife envied a machine more than a pilot's wife his plane.
I hope the modern age whatever happens, never loses the magic of flight and the brave people who dare to leave terra firma.
