In early January, an easy-to-miss line in a small Ohio newspaper announced the death of Dorothy Mann. The name is unfamiliar to most, but among my family it reignited conversations about her father, David H. Young, known to those close to him as Uncle Harold. Every family seems to have one eccentric relative whose antics get passed down from generation to generation. In our clan, that honor goes to Uncle Harold, a man who died more than 35 years ago but whose life provided a source of endless delight to those who knew him. At family gatherings, the stories usually start here: “Hey, remember that time Uncle Harold went for a ride in a biplane and the pilot fell out?” It doesn’t matter if everyone has already heard it; the tale will be told again, and somehow it will be just as funny as when it happened a century ago.
David H. Young not only has a special place in my family lore, he also has a special place in aviation history. He was one of the 598 original Early Birds—pioneers who flew solo before December 17, 1916. An alphabetical listing puts him just five names below Wilbur Wright. Early Birds historical records indicate his first piloting experience happened in 1913 in Hammondsport, New York. Before and after that time, he lived in Ohio, where the infamous biplane flight took place.
The story goes like this: On a fine Midwestern Sunday afternoon, Uncle Harold’s pal Glenn Curtiss (yes, that Glenn Curtiss) took him flying. As was typical for Sundays then, the extended family had gathered for the mid-day meal and Uncle Harold urged them all to come out afterward and watch the airplane fly over the house. Curtiss sat in the pilot’s seat behind Uncle Harold, and they soared over farmland. They buzzed the relatives. Then they gathered altitude, and Curtiss looped the biplane.
Coming out of the loop, Uncle Harold noticed a parachutist descending nearby. “Hey Glenn!” he hollered back. “Did you see that guy parachuting back there?” Turning in his seat, he found the pilot’s seat empty. Later, he would learn he had inadvertently released Curtiss’s seatbelt mechanism without either of them realizing it. In the moment, he understood only that Curtiss was the one descending by parachute and Young needed to figure out how to land the airplane. He got it down, bringing it to rest in a farmer’s field.
For Uncle Harold that turn of events was a kick, and, rather than deterring him, instilled in him a yearning to keep flying. Sometimes that’s all it takes. A single moment, one life-changing flight, and you can hook a friend on aviation. That’s how the passion was ignited for the Early Birds—one adventurous soul to another—and that is how it is still lit today, simply by bringing a friend to the airport and introducing him or her to the thrill of flying.
David H. Young went on to serve as an Army pilot during World War I and World War II. He built his first biplane exactly 100 years ago this year. In true Uncle Harold fashion, the project didn’t go exactly according to plan. After completing the airplane in his basement, he discovered it was too big to fit through the doors. Undeterred, he dismantled it, carried it out piece by piece, and reassembled it outside.
It was this ability to see solutions and implement them without hesitation that made him both a great pilot and a great source of family entertainment. In one of my favorite stories, Uncle Harold was driving his sister across the Arizona-California desert on a hot summer day in the 1960s. With no air conditioning in the black Buick, his passenger was sweltering so he stopped at a hardware store, bought a brush and a quart of white paint and, in the parking lot, proceeded to paint the roof of the car white to reflect the sun’s heat.
I was 9 years old when Uncle Harold passed away, but I can picture him standing on the beaches of California in his suit and tie, his eyes sparkling with delight in everything around him. On beautiful days when I think about being airborne, I can almost hear him ask what I’m waiting for—just grab a friend, paint the roof, and go.
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