In the early 50's my father graded an l800 foot landing strip into one of the ridge-top fields and put up a windsock. It was a proud moment he had dreamed of for years. Before long there was a four-place Cessna l70 tied down by the side of the strip. I continued learning to fly in that plane and soloed on my sixteenth birthday after one hour of flight time with a licensed instructor. I bragged about how he laughed and said he was turning me loose to solo after simply taking a ride with me. Later that day I took my driving test, a formality that seemed ludicrous, since I had been driving on and near the farm since I was seven. A week later I found a Piper Vagabond in Trade-a-Plane at the nearby Blue Ash Airport. It cost me 800 dollars, money I had made working on the farm over the years. My father dropped me at Blue Ash and I flew out to circle the farmstead, calling down to my waving brothers, “come out and see it”, then did a long swoop over the river, ending in a chandelle, after which I landed and parked next to the windsock. They came out on their bikes, Kit in the lead, then Rick and Roddy. My mother drove out with two year old Tony. I could see pride and a little awe in their faces. They crowded around the plane and I put Roddy and Tony in the cockpit and showed them how to move the joystick and watch the ailerons go up and down. I was glad I hadn’t bought a car, which some of my classmates were doing as they turned sixteen, primarily so they’d have more freedom to pick up girls. I was content to be the only junior at Walnut Hills High School with his own airplane and a license to escape the mundane world of my peers any time I wanted. I was elated by a calm certainty that I could be strong enough to chart my own course. Photo by Frederick Knoop |