Flying Life: A thank-you letter

When we landed the Beechcraft Duchess in Paris, Tennessee, the closest “large” town to my grandfather’s Dover, Tennessee, home, Aunt Nancy and Greypa were waiting on the ramp, suitcase in hand. Assuming that Greypa would be nervous, I walked over, preparing my speech about the safety features of the airplane and the experience level of the pilots. But Greypa didn’t need any of that. He just hugged my aunt and walked toward the airplane, climbing in the backseat like a man half his age. I laughed again with my aunt, who had expected reluctance on Greypa’s part as well—for leaving both the familiarity of his home and also solid ground.

When we leveled off in cruise, Greypa did what he does best: told stories. When some people get started on storytelling, it makes your eyes glaze over, but Greypa had a knack for making you want to hear more. I loved those stories, like the one about how Greypa sold his prized French horn so he could buy my grandmother’s wedding ring, or the one about his great aunt who put molasses on her toddler’s fingers—then gave the child a feather to buy herself some free time.

On this flight, however, Greypa graced us with a story from my father’s childhood. “Did I ever tell you about the time I took your dad and Aunt Nancy and Uncle Mike flying?” he said, in that quiet voice of his, that always made you want to lean closer so you wouldn’t miss anything. The benefit of hearing this story over the headset is that I was able to turn up the volume to make Greypa’s voice come in loud and clear.

What if that pilot had been too busy to offer a ride to a buddy and his three young children? What if my grandmother had never given her blessing?
“An older man I worked with had access to a brand-new Beechcraft Queen Air. He offered to take me and the kids flying. Your grandmother didn’t want to come. I think she was scared. It’s a wonder she let me take all of our kids. But I’m glad she did. I’ll never forget it. Once we got up high enough, that pilot told the kids to get out of their seats and stand up. Then he pushed the nose over so fast that the kids started floating off the floor. You should have seen your dad’s little face,” he said, with an unmistakable fondness in his voice.

Now, I have to confess that the flight instructor in me thought, “Hello? Seat belts! Safety!” But the daughter and granddaughter in me marveled at the fact that my grandfather could not remember whether or not he ate breakfast that morning—but he could recall, in vivid detail, the events of a single airplane ride more than 50 years earlier. Although Greypa never became a pilot, he had two sons who joined the U.S. Air Force—one of whom, my father, would go on to have a successful career flying heavies.

As I sit here now looking at a smiling photo of Greypa from that weekend trip he took with me, I wonder how much of my life has been shaped by that Queen Air flight. What if that pilot had been too busy to offer a ride to a buddy and his three young children? What if my grandmother had never given her blessing? What if my father had never experienced that first thrill of aviation when his feet left the floor of that Queen Air? Would I be where I am today? Making my living in airplanes, writing about them, loving them?

We may never know the impact of our actions, for better or for worse. But I’d like to think that even the smallest act of kindness can have far-reaching consequences. Whoever that pilot was, I’m sure he is long gone by now. But if he were here, I’d thank him for taking my family flying all those years ago, for possibly imparting a love of aviation that would affect generations to come. Considering what little I know about his fun-loving spirit, I think I can honor that pilot’s gift in an even better way—by taking someone else flying who can tell their grandchildren about the experience 50 years from now.

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