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June 26, 2006
Growing up in West Virginia
It's a really neat thing to spend your life
living where you grew up. One reason this is true is, you are constantly seeing
things around you that remind you of earlier times in your life. The other day
something I saw reminded me of my early fascination with things that flew. As I
thought of how I was then, I wondered if there could exist in our modern world,
a child with the intensity of yearning for the sky that I had when I was young.
I recall a passion for the air that I can only describe as blood lust for the
sky and the machines that went there. I was wild to see an airplane on the
ground; one I could touch and look inside and inspect from all angles as I
walked around it..
 But
such a thing was impossible, because I lived far out in the country with no way
to visit an airport and get close to an airplane. I remember that my young
dreams frequently starred airplanes that had crashed near my home. Far from
being ghoulish, these dreams featured no broken people or bloody pilots, but
rather they were about airplanes that had simply come to earth, seemingly with
no people involved. Later I realized my subconscious mind knew that if I was
going to get close to an airplane, this was the only way it could happen.
I
grew up (and still live) in the small West Virginia village of Arden, perched on
the banks of the rushing Tygart River, in the foothills of the Appalachian
Mountains. At the time I write about, the big war was recently over and the
young men had come home to start families and get on with their lives. Arden had
a post office, four general stores, a church and two schools and was located 9
miles from the nearest community that could be called a town. West Arden School,
where I matriculated, was a one-room affair in the west shore of the river and
East Arden was a two-room facility on opposite bank.
My school was
located on a steep hill that ended on the banks of the river, with only enough
level area for the dirt road that led up the river to where I lived, about a
quarter mile away. The hill containing the school, afforded a great recess and
noon time launching area for the paper airplanes that I and my best buddy Murphy
turned out by the dozens, and I still remember in detail some of the most
outstanding flights we had. What I saw, as they rose and dove in the air
currents and made their way down the slope of the hill, was not a paper toy, but
somehow the real thing with myself inside it
Most of the men living
in the village farmed or worked in the mines, and it seems to me now that the
pace of life then was measured and slow, and that there was lots of time for
front porch visiting and the school socials we all enjoyed.
My parents
raised a huge garden and shopped in a nearby town for staples only monthly, by
catching a ride with a neighbor. We had pigs, chickens and cows and our table
was always filled with delicious things to eat, which I took for granted then
and which I dream about now. We lived in a big farm house that my Grandfather
bought at the end of the First War, and it was rambling and comfortable and
heated with coal stoves. By the time fall arrived each year, the cellar and meat
house were filled with almost everything we needed to get through to the next
growing season, and we felt secure and provided for.
It would be
difficult for today's child to imagine the world of that time. Although we had
everything we needed to live and be comfortable, there was an almost complete
lack of anything beyond that, and our isolation from anything outside our
village was nearly total. Since the world of flight existed only occasionally,
high over my head and out of reach, there was no way I could connect with it.
There was no television or telephones and almost no travel for us, since our
family had no automobile. There was also no library in our village, so my entire
access to the world of aviation was limited to an occasional flying story told
by one of the neighbor lads who was learning to fly on the GI Bill, or a
dog-eared 'Flying' magazine, handed down to me by one of the same young men.
Surprisingly, this lack of access to the very thing that I wanted with
all my heart, served not to discourage my passion but to feed it, by dangling
tantalizing out of reach, the magical world of flight.
Today, life for
the average American child bears little resemblance to that idyllic time.
Instant and complete communication with the rest of the world, via internet and
television has removed the veils of mystery from almost any subject that a
youngster could be interested in. The average family's ability to move about the
country or even the globe, gives today's young people the opportunity to be
jaded travelers by the age of six. The family car enables an immediate drive by
Dad or Mom to the local airport, should their child show an interest in
aviation, and most family budgets could easily spring for an airplane ride for
the fledgling aviator, should he ask for one.
 When
I finally connected with the world of flight many years later, my pent-up
enthusiasm served me well. I loved it just as much as I thought I would as a
child, and I've been able make a living doing what I love best in the world for
most of my life. I've never taken the gift of flight for granted, and even after
so many years and many thousands of flight hours, I still feel an inexpressible
thrill at each takeoff. At the instant my aircraft's wheels leave the earth and
I'm magically borne on the invisible air, I know again that my childhood dream
came true.
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