The kid’s pace slowed as the tree line fell behind, the green grass of the airport coming into view. Pedaling slower while steering the bike off the main thoroughfare and onto the little used service road, the kid’s eyes scanned the grounds.
Beyond the chain link fence, the Do Not Enter signs, and the undeveloped buffer that lay between the rest of the world and the runway, there were rows of hangars.
Some of the hangars were small. Just big enough to fit a single airplane inside. A few of the doors of these smaller hangars stood open, their tenants milling about nearby as they rolled aircraft in, or out, or washed a layer of earthbound grime or formerly airborne insects off the painted surfaces.
Another kid, not much older than the one on the bike, wiped a chromed propeller blade with a bright yellow cloth. An adult, maybe the lucky kid’s father or grandfather, wiped the opposing blade with a similar looking piece of fabric.
The kid envied that youthful counterpart, even if he was doing a required chore. He was touching an airplane. A real airplane. One that flies and everything.
Just 100 yards or so down the road the hangars grew. They got taller, wider, and deeper. Whopper big airplanes sat inside waiting for action. Some were near the front of the hangar, the sun glinting off their brightly colored skins. Others were farther into the cavern, partially disassembled. Engines poked out from their mounts, their covers removed, their dull metal naked to the world, clearly visible even to the curious eye of a bicycle riding 12 year old.
The kid could barely see what sort of treasures were hidden in the shadows at the back of those big hangars. But he dare not stop. The fence was high. The Do Not Enter signs were plentiful. There were people in those hangars. Men and women, young and old. They’d turn an intruder into the authorities for sure.
The kid kept pedaling. Slowly, but never wavering. Forward progress was imperative. This was no place to give the appearance of being a thief, or a terrorist, or the kind of kid who might climb a fence when nobody was looking. Nothing good could come from that. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.
Over the summer the kid’s route stayed the same. Two miles from the house to the airport. Two miles home again. Every day. Sometimes twice.
The sights and sounds of the airport and the flying machines in those hangars stuck with the kid. Flying became a constant preoccupation. Overnight the kid’s dreams were populated with those exact same airplanes, coming from the very same hangars on the daily route.
A hangar at a Wisconsin airport. (Photo by Larrcy Stencel).
Throwing caution to the wind on the very next visit, the bike slowed, stopped, and fell over into the soft grass beside the service road. Seeing no police cars or military vehicles nearby, one foot inched toward the fence, then another, then a full step. Suddenly the kid’s face was pressed to the fence’s galvanized steel links. They were sharp and poked young cheeks.
Pulling back a fraction of an inch, the hangars seemed to call out, inviting a curious kid sporting a head full of dreams inside.
The big hangar where the mechanics were busy mending and maintaining machinery caught the eye. At least five airplanes were visible. Some were big. The kid surmised there must be lots of seats inside. Others were small. Very small. But they must be easier to fly, the kid thought. Maybe that’s where you start. Maybe I could fly one of those…someday…maybe…
From out of the shadows in the back of the hangar came an old man. A really old man. The kid guessed he was 50 if he was a day. In one hand he held a cup. Probably coffee. Old people drink coffee. In the other a grease-soaked rag. He spotted the kid. The kid froze. The old man raised the rag and gestured with it. The kid ran. Back to the bike. Back to the service road. Two miles home. No looking back.
The kid didn’t go back the next day, or the next. But the lure of the airport, the hangars, the flying machines, and the sounds they all made was too much to ignore, even if it did mean he might get arrested for trespassing. Even if they did haul kids off to the pokey and call their parents at work to let them know what hoodlums they were raising. The airport called out and the kid answered.
The bike stopped again, fell in the grass where it had before, and the kid carefully walked up to the fence.
The sky was a perfect blue without even a hint of a cloud. July was in full swing. It was hot, even at mid-morning. The kid squinted. The sun was directly behind the big hangar, just clearing the roofline. The kid could barely see, but the sounds of the mechanics were familiar, both soothing and exciting at the same time.
“Hey, kid!” a voice boomed out. It was close. Startled, the kid squinted harder, peeking in between tightly closed fingers. “What’s your name?” the old man came into view, no more than three steps away. He was on the opposite side of the fence, but close. The kid shuddered but remained silent.
“Kid,” the old man repeated. “What’s your name?”
“Morgan,” the kid replied with knees and voice exhibiting equal unsteadiness.
“You come by here almost every day. Sometimes twice. Maybe more, I don’t know.”
“Uh huh,” said the kid, still shaken.
“You got family here?”
“No, sir.”
“Friends?”
“No, sir.”
The old man took a sip of coffee from his mug. They were so close the kid could smell it. He looked back over his shoulder at the hangar and the activity inside. The kid thought about taking the opportunity to run, but if caught that would only make things worse.
“You know how to use a broom?” the old man asked.
The kid looked back, confused.
“A broom,” the old man repeated himself. “Do you know how to use a broom?”
“Uh, yeah,” the kid said. “I guess so.”
“Wanna make $5?”
The kid’s mind locked up. This must be a trick question.
“My helper couldn’t come in today. Sick. I could use someone who can help wash planes and sweep up. Pays $5.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid beamed.
“C’mon, there’s a gate just over here. I’ll let you in.”
And so it begins…as it has for over 100 years, as it still can.
Be the old man, even if you’re not one. You’ll feel good about it.
Be a better informed pilot.
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I’M AN ADULT – I USED TO FLY. MY “HOME” AIRPORT IS VERY FORBODING. THE CITY DOESN’T WANT YOU HERE. KVNC IS NOT A HAPPY PLACE UNLESS YOU HAVE A HUGE BANK ACCOUNT…I WATCH SOMETIMES AND THINK OF THE TIME WHEN I “WAS UP THERE”….
What a marvelous story It is such stories that you realize how many people
share the same experiences.
If I ever see a kid outside of the fence, Guess what I will do.
I was that kid, too. A couple of years older and female, I used to hang out at one of three airports. I took the bus and the “L” train in Chicago, then walked a few miles to Meigs Field. Used to watch Merrill C. Meigs himself practice landings in his Bonanza. I think he was in his 80s then (he always had a check pilot with him). The other two fields were smaller, and I rode my bicycle there. On summer days, I went just about every day. Yes, I did get a license, about a month after I turned 18, and owned a couple of planes BK–Before Kids. Life has funny wrinkles, and I can no longer get a medical, but it was an itch my husband and I scratched pretty thoroughly in the early years of our marriage.
Wonderful story, Jamie – and Roy too! (And why I too never miss a day.) There are fine organized programs to introduce young men and women to aviation, but these one-on-one interactions might well be better. Those of us who are GA devotees even if we are not pilots should follow this lead and reach out as we can.
Jamie, stories such as this are why I don’t miss a day of your publication. 45 years ago I was the curious kid, being pulled towards what would become my vocation as well as my avocation, my work and my hobby, but as a kid I didn’t know that. I only knew planes were fascinating. 23,000 hours and four type ratings later, they still are. It’s a great job and an even better hobby. Thanks for reminding this old dog of that.
Great story! Thanks for the reminder that we are our own future, we just need to wake up and see it 🙂
Great story, brought tears to my eyes. Thanks, Jamie. Let’s all try to find a young kid to mentor.
Fifty-two years ago, I rode my bicycle to the local airport in the suburbs of Southern California. I had two dollars in my pocket. The little airport had a small restaurant, with seating outside, facing the flight line. There was a three-foot high fence for “security.” Airplanes would fuel up outside the restaurant, and pilots would come inside for lunch. I knew they’d let me sit outside if I bought a root beer – which was why I needed two dollars. I nursed that soda for as long as I could.
My parents knew where I was, since I pestered them so often about model airplanes and the airplanes at our nearby airport.
A man finished putting avgas into his Piper 140, and walked toward the gate to the patio, and what I assumed would be his lunch. Instead, he stopped right beside me, looked down, and said, “Would you like to go for a flight?”
I was not to be so elated again until my girlfriend said that she’d be my wife!
He helped me get seat-belted into the Piper’s right front seat (no shoulder harnesses back then). I watched everything he did in awe, amazed at how confidently he went through checklists and was ready for takeoff.
We lifted off and set our course westbound. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “I thought I’d go to Catalina Island and land at the Airport in the Sky. I felt on top of the world, as we left the coast behind, and began our 23 miles to Catalina. After landing, he taxied to the restaurant, and bought me a bison burger.
The return flight seemed far too short, and we soon touched down and taxied back to the restaurant’s patio. I jumped out, thanking him over and over again.
Later that year, I convinced my father to let me take flying lessons, even though I was only 15. I completed ground school first, and then began the flight instruction.
On my sixteenth birthday, I rode my bicycle once more to the airport (I did not have a driver’s license). After a few practice landings, my instructor got out and told me to take it around the pattern. Before I left the airport, I had a student pilot’s license in my pocket as I climbed on my bicycle to return home. (The driver’s license would come three days later.)
That was over 50 years ago. In between, I won a collegiate flying club landing contest, flew taildraggers onto dry lake beds and beaches, flew supersonic jets for the Air Force, reached 31,000′ in a glider, and completed an airline career.
And I have never forgotten it was because a man offered a kid a ride in a Piper 140 on a spring day.
What wonderful stories — Jamie’s and Roy’s. Thank you both.
Great story, thanks for sharing!
That kid, was me, 65 years and 15000+ hours ago. Their we’re no big hangars, only smaller ones, but they were just as intimidating, so was the man, his name was Lee Roskey and I thought I was dead. He didn’t offer money, but a ride in the most magnificent yellow Cub, if I washed it.