As we age, most of us find ourselves approaching the limits of the physical abilities that are necessary to fly safely. While there are quite a few octogenarian aviators out there, those in their 90s are a rare breed. And then, in a class by himself, there's Charles-very likely the oldest active pilot anywhere.
Meeting him is in itself an encounter with the remarkable. He walks as quickly as someone half his age, and he is as mentally agile as he is physically spry. His steel-grey eyes have perfect distance vision. He still has his teeth, doesn't suffer from ailments common in men of lesser years, and says he hasn't had a sick day in his life. Although the decades spent around noisy machinery have taken a toll on his hearing, his hearing aids compensate well, and when he "has his ears in," his hearing is just about normal. He remains physically active, still mows his own lawn - we're talking 25 acres on a tractor-and works in his machine shop making equipment repairs for local farmers.
The way Charles approaches life is just as remarkable. In his typical matter-of-fact way, he doesn't see what all the fuss is about. Part of the magic is that he doesn't think of himself as old. In fact, he doesn't like being around "old people"-old in spirit, that is. He's worked all his life, and he's still at it. Like many of the 40,000 or so centenarians in this country, Charles hasn't so much come to terms with aging as he has ignored it.
Just how does he do it? He acknowledges that his longevity is largely the luck of the draw. His grandmother lived to be 110, and he supposes he just got "some of those genes." He keeps busy, takes vitamins, watches his blood pressure, and drinks two beers a day. His advice to the rest of us: Don't be afraid to work.
When Charles flies, once every other week or so, it's usually to fly-ins or other gatherings within a 25-mile radius. Sometimes, it's to nowhere in particular, especially if there are some puffy clouds to gaze upon. He only flies when the weather is perfect and the winds are right. He's not too keen on the idea of pushing the envelope. He did that as a test pilot during World War II.
Charles' life has spanned the entire history of aviation and embraced the first formative half of it. Born in Middletown, Ohio, on November 6, 1899, he lived there until 1918. He always loved machinery, riding motorcycles and owning a Model-T Ford. (His other love was music, and he played the saxophone in a jazz band.) He soon found that he had innate mechanical ability. If he saw something once, he could go home and build it-often improving it.
From the first time that he saw an airplane up close - a Jenny that had to land in a nearby field for a couple of days while a bad magneto was repaired - he wanted to learn to fly. Later on he signed up with Uncle Sam, but the Armistice ending World War I was signed on the day that he was supposed to report, so that was the end of that-but not for long.
Charles had entered the workforce at age 14, taking up welding in a job shop where he repaired everything from hoes to teakettles. Around 1922, he got a job with the Dayton-Wright Airplane Company. Flying machines were making the transition from wood to metal, and welding was a valuable skill. A gas welding prodigy, he could weld the Liberty engines' troublesome cylinder jackets (which were prone to water leaks) "so slick that everything was just right."
In the course of patching up engines and airplanes, he became acquainted with Howard Rinehart and Benny Whelan, whose company performed test piloting for Dayton-Wright. He often saw Orville Wright in the shop, although he never spoke to him. But he did talk to Whelan, who had received his training from the Wrights. Whelan was soon giving Charles flight lessons during his lunch hour. After a very few hours, Charles soloed. His work and his flight training helped him to become familiar with basic aircraft design principles, and, beginning with an airplane built in the haymow of a friend's barn, he has built a total of seven aircraft. And what does Charles have to say of his building success? "They all flew nice, and I never killed anybody."
Charles worked on a number of early airplanes, such as the de Havilland DH8, and one of the first retractable aircraft built at Dayton-Wright. After Dayton-Wright closed, he worked at Gallidet Aircraft Company in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, building seaplanes for the Navy. He went on to work for Consolidated Aircraft Company in Buffalo, New York, where he worked on Fleet biplanes. He married in 1925, and he and his new bride, Leona, spent their free time flying to various cities, landing in nearby fields, and selling airplane rides to the "city folks" for $2. In about 1926, the two moved to Zanesville, Ohio, and bought Weler Field and its hangar, starting an airplane and engine company there.
Then the depression hit. Fortunately, Charles knew some people from Wright Field who ran the engine overhaul shop for Transworld Airlines in Columbus. He worked there for six months before being hired as a copilot and becoming the first to fly the Columbus-to-New York route at night. In New York, TWA housed its airplanes in the same hangar that Charles Lindbergh used for his aircraft. Lindbergh and Charles often discussed the weather in the flight office. Charles also proudly recalls having once handed Eleanor Roosevelt a box lunch.
After three years, TWA moved to Kansas City. But Charles had just bought a house in Columbus, and Leona didn't want to move. That marked a temporary end to Charles' association with the airline business.
As it happened, the couple's next-door neighbor was highly placed with the Pennsylvania railroad, and he knew about Charles and his machine shop. For the next three years, he worked for the railroad, making parts and earning more than he had as a copilot.
Then, one of Charles' students from his days in Zanesville started an airline in Puerto Rico and asked Charles to fly for him. Charles agreed to do it on the condition that the former student move Charles' family and purchase Charles' machine shop for the then-kingly sum of $10,000. Charles never thought that his former student would meet such demands, but he did. Charles spent the next three years flying Stinson Ts about seven and one-half hours a day, seven days a week, over the Caribbean's clear waters. During these flights he saw whales and, at the start of World War II, one enemy sub, which he promptly reported and the Navy just as promptly dispatched.
In 1943, it was back to Columbus, where Charles got a job flight testing the 1,900-hp Curtis-Wright SB2C Helldiver - one of the first U.S. airplanes equipped with radar - which it was building for the Navy.
By the time the war ended, Charles had collected some 6,000 hours of flight time, but Leona wanted roots, and she gave him an ultimatum: her or the airplanes. Charles started a shop repairing cars in an old farm house in Columbus. He kept at it for the next 20 years. In 1965, he began overtaking another lifelong dream: the restoration of the pipe organ from Columbus' old Lincoln Theater, which now occupies much of his basement and garage. For the past 30 years, Charles has been widely known for his regular concerts.
Now, when Charles reflects on how things used to be, he can't help but notice how much has changed. Back when he got his start, of course, flight was less predictable than it is today, and Charles had his share of tight squeezes-the first of which occurred on his third solo flight. His takeoff path was in the direction of a hotel, then the Dayton-Wright factory, and beyond that, high-tension wires for the Inter-Urban rail line. With a little less than 500 feet of altitude, his engine quit. Landing straight ahead wasn't an option. He made a highly expedited 180-degree turn and landed. The only damage was a broken tail skid.
Charles also recalls a spirited adventure in which he and his brother-in-law flew in Charles' airplane (the original Blue Boy) to Findlay, Ohio, to try their hand at barn- storming. On the way, a strut wire broke, and they had to land in the middle of Norton Field during bombing practice. Luckily, Charles met an acquaintance at the field who had them fixed up in short order.
Continuing their journey through a setting sun, Charles had to rely on his brother-in-law's knowledge of the likely location of a field as they gingerly descended into total darkness, feeling for the ground. The next morning they saw that they had managed to put the airplane neatly between two rows of wheat shocks. They spent the entire day giving ride after ride, running out of pockets in which to stuff dollar bills. Charles estimates that at that time, he had a total flight time of five hours.
Later, while testing an aircraft for Curtiss-Wright and climbing through 15,000 feet, he smelled burning rubber. As it turned out, had he been wearing his oxygen mask, he might never have smelled the fire that was rapidly growing out of control.
Even with experiences like that behind him, Charles isn't willing to admit to having been frightened. Asked about his scariest flight, he replied, "If I ever get scared, it's all over with." And Charles doesn't think older people should be afraid of learning to fly, either.
What does the future hold? Charles doesn't worry about that much. He's busy enjoying the present, including his music, his flying, and all his young friends. Recently, he went to Oshkosh as a guest speaker, traveling with friend and neighbor Joseph Van Balen. Charles has also been invited to tour an aircraft carrier, and he's been interviewed on several radio shows. Willard Scott's tribute aired a few weeks after his 100th birthday, and Charles appeared on Late Night with David Letterman around the same time.
Charles says he plans to be around for the Wright Brothers' centennial, and he expects to be flying for "four or five more years." As always, he continues to work on the concert hall in his home.
As for dreams for the future, he would like to see plans for an aircraft that you could build with parts from a hardware store, so the "poor guy could have an airplane." He would also like to see a museum arise out of his home from his own collection of history.
Charles gets quite a bit of mail these days, and he shared one particularly moving letter from a man in the Perryville, Arizona, prison who wrote that "time can't stop a person from realizing their dreams." Amen to that.
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