In a time when women did not learn to fly, my mother's logbook shows that, after eight hours of dual instruction, she soloed Piper Cub N48212 on the fourth of June, 1946.
It was the first spring after World War II. Flying still had a reputation for being a risky undertaking, best left to daring and adventurous young men. But this daring and adventurous pilot was my mother, now reminiscing on the other end of the telephone line, 600 miles away.
"I used to do spins over my parents' house," she said.
"Spins? Oh, you mean flying in circles."
"No, a spin is when one wing can no longer fly, and it stalls. The other wing is still making lift, and so it causes a spin."
"But why?" I asked her.
"Because it was so much fun!"
She paused, suddenly reticent. Reliving those moments, she saw her parents as they watched her fly. The image came only now, after she had raised four children of her own. "You know, I bet they were scared to death when I did that."
At first she was just a teenage girl who went for an airplane ride. He was a young man with a Stinson. But the excitement that consumed her had nothing to do with the pilot.
Logbook entries are always terse and dry. My mother's log says nothing about the job she got to pay for her lessons, just like so many other pilots — before and since. Early log entries contain the typical remarks for any student pilot: "Familiarization — straight-and-level turns." "Climbs, glides, turns, stalls." "Pattern and takeoffs and landings."
The entry for June 4, 1946, simply says that in Piper J-3 Cub NC48212, she flew a total of 60 minutes. The instructor's single remark: "First solo OK."
"It was a grass airstrip, and my first solo flight was just a few takeoffs and landings. The instructor kept waving to me each time I came around. When I finally stopped, he asked, 'Didn't you see me waving?' I told him, 'Yes, I did, but I thought you were just waving encouragement.' 'No. I wanted you to stop. On your first takeoff, you caught some of the bushes along the runway with your wing, and they were still there dragging along!'"
The log entries end after 30 hours of flying time. Several of the final entries include the remark "Check-out." The last is dated March 12, 1948.
Mother spent most of the next 39 years raising her four children. No longer a pilot and only once a passenger, she stayed landbound. The logbook was tucked away, a carefully preserved memory. Flying and spins were only topics for telephone conversations. They seemed to be of no importance to anyone.
During one such unimportant telephone call, she was talked into coming down for a visit. She arrived in rainy weather, but bright and happy to be spending a week with her son. Two days later, the rain finally cleared out. I came home from work as usual and changed into blue jeans. Day was turning into evening, calm, quiet, and refreshing.
"Come on, I have to go take some photographs. Where's your camera? Bring it with you," I suggested.
"Where are we going?" she asked. But I rushed around and concentrated on my camera bag and did not answer.
The ride in the car took less than 20 minutes. We left the subdivision and traveled past the stores and shopping malls. Near our destination, she noticed a sign: "Greenville Municipal Airport."
"Where are we going?" she asked again, now a bit nervous. Still I said nothing and just focused on turning into a small, tree-lined lane.
Seconds later, we could see airplanes, tied down in their rows. I parked the car.
"Come on," I said, heading across the macadam.
"Where?"
"Just over here."
The dozens of airplanes were of many makes and models, but as we walked across the ramp, she pointed to one little airplane in particular. It was just an old high-winged, fabric-covered, two-seat taildragger. It looked a little lost among its newer, metal-skinned cousins. But you could hear the greetings of an old friend when she cried out, "Oh, look! An Aeronca."
We kept walking, and the rows of airplanes began to thin.
"Where are we going?" She asked again, more nervous than before.
"Just up here."
"I'm not going flying," she said, working to keep up. "I wouldn't trust another pilot."
We passed every airplane but one. This moment had been months in the making. Drawing near, I pulled my keys from my pocket and unlocked the doors.
"What are you doing?! Whose airplane is this?!" Her voice sounded as if she had lost her balance.
"Get in," I said.
"What?"
"Get in."
"Oh, no, I can't go flying!" But she needed no coaxing to jump in and buckle her seat belt.
I got in and put the key in the ignition. "What are you doing? You can't fly this! Are you a pilot?"
I showed her my logbook in answer. The evidence was there in the same old simple entries that mean so much. September 12, 1986: "Orientation, preflight, and aircraft familiarity. Climb, descent, turns." October 22: "Touch and go; first solo." The entry for November 29 is the first to record aircraft N6673S, the Cessna 150 I had bought. And finally on April 25: "Private pilot certificate issued."
Now it was a sunny evening in July, and a perfect time for two pilots to go flying.
We took off and flew above the town, sightseeing, taking pictures, and, most of all, enjoying the flight. We headed south a few miles and landed at Oakhill, South Carolina, a small grass airstrip. Its owner had checked out the 150 for me before the purchase. He was happy to welcome a woman who loves to fly.
He showed her around the hangar. The residents included an old Piper Tri-Pacer, stripped to its frame. One wing lay on sawhorses, awaiting fabric. The other leaned against a wall. The owner proudly showed off his homebuilt biplane and his Aeronca Chief.
My mother and I walked outside, just to enjoy the airstrip and its airplanes. She walked with easy familiarity around wings, fuselages, and propellers. Was it 1947 or 40 years later? Yesterdays and todays, fresh and new and all tied together.
In that one evening she used up all of her film. She took pictures of Oakhill, of the scenery below as we flew, and of her son tying down his airplane.
Later she would tell me that the way I landed my tricycle-gear Cessna was not the technique she had learned for landing a taildragger like a Piper Cub. "You were doing it all wrong," she said.
Of course, I had known all along that a spin is not just flying in circles. And I had also known that her own son was the one pilot whom she would trust anytime.
Scott Crosby, AOPA 923604 , is a senior software specialist who has accumulated 920 hours of flight in his nine-and-a-half years as a private pilot. He now holds an instrument rating.
