The Garage My Introduction to Aviation

The Garage
My introduction to aviation

I am not sure why I rode my bike home a different way from elementary school on that fateful day, it was around 1967 or 1968 as I recall. Growing up in South Miami Florida I did like the outdoors, however it was more typical of me to race right home, finish my homework, and pick up where I left off on any one of a dozen plastic and/or balsa wood airplane model projects in various stages of construction in my bedroom. Numerous completed aircraft already hung from the ceiling by thin strands of monofilament fishing line, but there was always room for one more. My parents always claimed my infatuation with aviation started shortly after birth, but before I was released from the hospital. Regardless, it was an all consuming passion, fueled by a spirit of adventure, imagination, and the all inspiring allure of flight.

Perhaps it was this spirit of adventure or just dumb luck that made me take a detour home, through a nearby neighborhood, exploring other houses in this middle-class suburbia. As I rode down an unfamiliar street, a mere few blocks from my own house, my eyes were suddenly drawn to an open garage, and the unmistakable sight of an uncovered wood-ribbed wing hanging across the back wall. Not unlike so many balsa wings pinned to wax-paper covered plans in my bedroom, it loomed larger than life in this garage, only this one was enormous in proportion. My tires skidded and I wrestled to control my bike as I turned around and rode up the driveway of this stranger’s house (this was back in a simpler and safer time). Approaching the garage opening I laid down my bike and approached the front of an uncovered fuselage. An enormous engine stuck out with a propeller and a bright red spinner, I stood in awe of this life size flying model. The owner and builder, graying and upward in his years, dressed in coveralls and baring a striking resemblance to my deceased grandfather, saw me first. He walked slowly, matter of fact like around the tail, wiping his hands with a small towel and approached me, resting a hand on the propeller. I was calmed immediately by the fact he was smiling and seemingly not upset by this blatant trespass.

Mustering the courage to speak, all I could ask was "wow, what is it"? I remember his response as if it were yesterday. "This, my little friend, is what they call a Pitts Special, and I am building it myself." He started to stroll around the garage pointing at the wings, the fuselage, the tail, describing each piece to me as if giving the president a tour of the town. His wife must have become aware of this impromptu visit, because she brought out lemonade for us (the real stuff) and then threw me a hand towel. "Here," she said, "you will need this". Then, while giving her husband a funny frown she added, "I can help keep your hands clean, but I can not keep this from getting into your blood." Honestly, this last part did scare me a bit because I didn't like the thought of anything getting into my blood; only later in life did I realize she was alluding to aviation. I hung out in the builder's garage the rest of the afternoon, fascinated by all that I had discovered. It was a fascinating leap from everything in miniature to the real thing. Many of the builder's references were familiar to me and my understanding was probably light years ahead of other kids, less interested in airplane models. I never wanted to leave. But they insisted I check in at home and said feel free to stop in anytime.

During the rest of the school year, I would periodically stop by if I saw the garage door open, just to help fetch a paint brush, hold a bolt, pull a wire thru or confirm a number on a set of plans with a young set of eyes. Without knowing it, I was being taught patience and the courage to accomplish anything I set my mind to, as he had done with this project. I'm sure I slowed progress down significantly with my never ending string of questions, but aircraft building school was in session and I wanted to learn and he never seemed to mind. Toward the end of the school year, sometimes weeks would go by before I could stop in. While at recess during one of the last days, I happened to see a truck and trailer passing by the school yard. On top of the trailer was the red, covered and completed fuselage, wings strapped to the side, heading off to what I guessed was the nearest airport and into the air. I could not comprehend at that time what it would be like to fly, but I knew someday I had to find out.

That would be the last time I saw of the aircraft and its owner/builder. We moved away shortly after this but the seed had been planted, and to a great extent, I credit this experience for setting my direction in life. I have long ago forgotten the name of the builder who was so influential and never tired of answering my every question with patience, understanding and quiet mentorship. I will be forever grateful for what he taught me about aircraft and about myself. And now I know exactly what his wife meant and I smile with understanding as I build my own aircraft, in my own workshop today and realize she was right, it somehow got in my blood.