“The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself.”
Mark Twain

It was damp and cold under the bleachers where I sat crouched so no one could see me. I could hear faint voices from the adults perched in the gazebo nearby as they watched the other children playing. I looked forward to this day for a longtime. I couldn’t wait until the end of school. This was it. The last few days of the school year were reserved for the class picnic. At 10-1/2 years old, it doesn’t get much better than a picnic of hot dogs and games in the park. And, this was Moorland Park. My favorite place in the world. Or, it used to be. Today is was lonely, cold and dark.

The rain started slowly coming over the hills. I could smell it from my hideaway. Parents and children began swarming the gazebo. In the commotion, I heard my mother ask about me. At first it was a casual interest, and then I could hear in her voice…she was more than a little concerned. I had a birds-eye view of the frantic search beginning, but I had no intent of letting her know where I was. I was angry and hurt. If she wanted me to go away, I intended to go away… and stay away.

When we first arrived at the park, several out-of-town classes emerged on us. They were all about the same age; however, there was something different. They were from a larger town nearby. They walked in as if they owned the place. I immediately felt that they were interfering in our picnic. Who did they think they were moving in on our picnic!

Being shy was definitely a handicap; nevertheless, I decided to be friendly and ask them to join us. I got no closer than ten feet from them when they quickly dismissed me as if I were bothering them and not cool enough to begin to consort with their group. They began laughing as I walked away.

I looked around to find someone I knew. No one was around. Returning to the fire pit, I realized that my classmates had ventured out on a hike. No one was around except for the parents sitting in the gazebo. I decided the best course of action would be to sit with my mother until my classmates returned.

Walking slowly up to the gazebo, several mothers greeted me as I entered the stairs. As I approached, my mother asked why I wasn’t playing with the other children. Before I could explain, she abruptly pushed me away insisting that I try again to play with the new children. When tears began to well up, she stood up and pushed me off the gazebo telling me, “go away, you are embarrassing me in front of my friends.” It was as if someone had punched me in the stomach. It never occurred to me that I would be rejected… especially by my mother. For the first time in my life… I felt loneliness. That was forty years ago, yet I can remember it like it was yesterday.

I was a lanky, tall, flat-chested young woman growing up. My grandmother, who was a wonderful seamstress, commented on several occasions that “my clothes looked better on the hanger than they did on me.” She was a wonderfully strong woman, who served to shape my life more than I would have ever realized during those years. Her name was Arlene Ida Roberts Hartnett, from Welsh decent. She was a survivor from the age of four when her mother died leaving ten children for her father to raise. As one of the youngest, she was sent off to live with the Mohawk Indians for the summers. It was a common practice for large families in difficult times. The older children went off to work to help support the family. There were no daycare’s or others to baby-sit.

Listening to my grandmother tell stories of her summers with the Indians was a favorite pastime growing up. She knew more about mushrooms, wild greens, wildlife and life in general than most. Her practical approach to life’s dilemmas and her gentleness of spirit created a personality that is, still to this day, unlike anyone I’ve ever met.

On one cold morning, I noticed my grandmother hanging clothes on the line to dry. It was still winter and the clothes were likely to freeze on the line, which my brother, sisters and I thought was great fun to punch as we walked by. As she was pulling one piece out of the laundry basket, she looked down and noticed a garden snake had wrapped itself around her ankle, seemingly for warmth. Smiling she excitedly stated, “isn’t that cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” I was desperately afraid of snakes, still am. I could see nothing…and I mean nothing…cute about a snake around her ankle. But, that was my grandmother. She looked at life differently than most women.

It wasn’t until her death at 82 years of age that I realized just how interesting a life she lived. Sitting on her bed looking through her personal belongings with my siblings, I found hundreds of letters and published articles. She was a fabulous writer. The words were eloquent and carefully chosen to paint a wonderful visual picture. I loved what I was reading and couldn’t wait to discover more.

When I think about Dad’s life I would have to say that he was probably best known for his naturally reserved nature. He was a quiet, unassuming man that would get excited about the simplest of things…a great Sunday meal at Holly’s…a new edition of Motor Trends…seeing a new aircraft fly overhead…lunch with his friends at the community center…the way Mom’s cat rubbed up against his legs…the pride he felt watching his grandchildren grow into young men and women. Simple things meant the most to him.

There were so many things about Dad that few of us really knew. He wasn’t the type of person to brag or even talk about himself much. Unless you asked him point blank…you would never know that he drove for General Patton during the war…or that he was a expert violinist… An accomplished figure skater…Or the fact that he built the early cockpit environments that are still used in aerospace today. I bet you didn’t know about the roadster that he and his brother built in the back yard? Yes, these things were extraordinary for such a quiet, reserved man. Other things were not so spectacular, but every bit as extraordinary…little things like keeping every note and card that he ever received for birthdays and holidays. The way he would phone out of the blue…just to say hello. The way he would remember to ask about the new car you just bought or how the kids were doing. Simple gestures…simple kindnesses. Nothing too fussy…grand, or overdone…that wouldn’t have been his way.

His expectations about life, wealth and happiness were few. He didn’t need a castle, riches or a new sports car every year to validate who he was (although I think he would have liked the new sports car every year). He was content with simple pleasures of surrounding himself with a loving family and lifelong friends.

If Dad could speak to us now, he might suggest that we look beyond this time of sadness and notice some of the simple things that gave him so much pleasure. He might also suggest that we look for him in ordinary places. He also might suggest listening to the words of this Hopi Indian prayer when the sadness starts to overtake you.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

by Mary E. Frye

We will be looking for you Dad in the winds that blow, the spring rains, and the quiet flock of birds that passes over head.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

The first time I saw this poem I was in the LaPorte, Texas FBO’s (fixed-based operator’s) front office waiting for my instructor to surface from a four-hour aerodynamics class. Boring stuff, to say the least, but all of us knew we’d better understand it if we wanted to get our rating. You’d think I was getting ready for combat the way my knees were shaking. It was the day I would solo.

A solo flight for a student pilot is a major milestone. It’s the point of being accepted into a fraternity that few women find themselves wanting to belong. “Today is the day,” I kept repeating to myself. The more I tried to stay calm, the more my knees would shake. Reading High Flight was the only thing that seemed to calm me. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful poem I had ever read. I felt every word as if they were my own.

Flying for me began with my uncle who owned an old Stearman, PT-17 in Houston. He’d take me up to practice barrel rolls, snaps, lazy eights and stalls. That open-cockpit was an amazing experience. The wind blowing in my face as I peered down from 10,000 feet was like nothing I had ever seen. It was addictive. My uncle didn’t have much use for female pilots, much like most his age, but he was fascinated with my thrill at taking the stick.

He explained to me that flying was not a sport suited to women. Nonsense, I thought. Just look at all the great women aviators, Louise Thaden, Bobbi Trout, Amelia Earhart, Fay Willis and Marjorie Brown. These women started their own race when the Bendix Race wouldn’t allow women in 1929. They called it the Women’s Air Race, which was later dubbed the Powder Puff Derby by Will Rogers. These were women not afraid to take on a challenge and I was determined to join them.

Little did I know when I set out to get my pilots license that I would be scared to death to solo. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have the training. I met the 40-hour requirement and had done well in most of my sessions. There was just something about the instructor leaving the plane that made me nervous. I knew if he was there, nothing could go wrong no matter how badly I messed up. Now, there would be no safety net. It was all up to me.

Around the corner came my instructor with a happier than usual demeanor. He was thrilled that I was about to solo. We quickly did our pre-flight check and jump in. After taking it “around the park” (within the landing pattern of the airport) he told me to taxi over and let him out. He said, “you’re as ready as you’ll ever be!” I was trying to play it cool, but the perspiration above my upper lip gave me away. I kept thinking, “he really doesn’t know what I don’t know. If he did, he wouldn’t let me take this plane up by myself.” I felt like my bluffing finally got the best of me. I had fooled my way into an awful situation. I thought I would embarrass the heck out of my self by wrecking the plane, or worse yet, I’d die. I even imagined friends and family mourning my passing from this solo flight.

As I taxied to the take off threshold, I took a deep breath and gave the throttle a quick push forward and away I was. The plane hopped right up to 400 feet with a gentle wind lifting the Cessna’s wings. The freedom was amazing. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. I was actually having fun. The only problem was that I had to come down, and preferably in one piece.

I entered downwind and began my approach checklist. I kept going over the High Flight words, those that I could remember anyway, in an attempt to calm myself. I checked things two and three times just to make sure I didn’t mess anything up. Coming in on final approach I barely took a breath. I felt I was a bit high for the runway and quickly adjusted. I was so busy at this point that I didn’t have time to be scared. I landed without much more than a little wobbling from ground effect.

I taxied over to my instructor who had a big grin on his face. He got in and said, “you didn’t think you could make it, did you?” He was right. He had more confidence in my than I had in myself. Since that day, every time I hear High Flight I think of that February afternoon and the words that got me through the most frightening hour of my life, my solo flight!

About High Flight: An American pilot and officer serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force composed High Flight. He wrote this poem in September 1941 and died three short months later from a mid-air training collision. This poem was mailed to his parents and has been associated with great airmen since World War II. In fact, President Reagan quoted from it during the Challenger disaster.