Flying Lesson #4

I find my Complete Private Pilot textbook again, which I misplaced for the past few weeks, probably unconsciously hiding it. It does not simplify itself upon retrieval and I start reading back on Chapter 1.

Glenn, my certified flight instructor, and I do ground tracking again, following Highway 51, west from Guthrie toward Hennessey and Okeene. Should be a straight line, but somehow the plane easily wanders off course. A little head strong, I assume. Either the plane, or me. Officially, it’s called ground reference maneuvers. I read that these maneuvers are conducted and taught for a few reasons. The article states:

“The first reason is to understand how wind affects an airplane in flight. While on the ground, an airplane experiences friction with the surface, and therefore can be pointed on a certain heading while not “drifting.” After liftoff, however, the wind dictates how the airplane will “track” over the ground. A generic statement would be that an object’s path or track is dictated by the medium by which it is surrounded.”

Huh? Am I on the right page? I assume the reason I’m learning to follow this road is to look at a runway and line the plane up correctly enough to land. Right? No need to know more. Wrong. “Ground reference maneuvers are instrumental in helping you cope with wind while turning.” Hm….. wind?

Back to my actual flight lesson. During this fourth hour I’m supposed to learn to fly at a slow speed. Wow. I am amazed. I didn’t realize a plane could stay afloat at only 80 miles at hour! Glenn reduces the throttle, keeps the nose up, adjusts the trim and …. what’s that again? Maybe he’ll repeat it next time. He’s really good at saying, “I’m not sure if I told you this, but …” without making me feel like a dummy.

To land, it’s vital to learn to fly at slow speeds, like slowing down a car, except more complicated. Glenn lets me land the plane, i.e. he says he’s letting me land but I have a sneaking suspicion he has his hand on the controls. It goes really well. I think it’s doable. 

Postscript #1:

I ask my pilot husband to help me practice flying. Spouses are not the best teachers, I learned through experience, hence the real instructor. But I think my husband can help me learn to fly in circles. I hate to spend thousands for an instructor to repeat the same thing over and over, my slow learning taken into consideration. My husband says yes, but he is too busy. Maybe that is as it should be.

I’m also lucky enough to have a pilot stepson. One who flies a Cessna Citation CJ3 for a wealthy individual and has some free time through the week. He agrees to fly with me after his required three landings to remember how to fly the plane… It has been a few years since he’s flown a little one-engine four-seater.

We are both a little nervous. My stepson, because the Grumman doesn’t have all the safety features of the Citation; all the bells and whistles and buttons that light up. And me, because I’m not sure if he knows what I know, or if he knows what I don’t know or if he doesn’t know what I’ll never know. I am afraid he’ll say, like my husband, just fly it!

So here we go. “Just do whatever you want to do,” he says as soon as we’re off the ground.

I glance at him warily and say, “But the instructor tells me what to do.” I can tell this will not be a pleasant experience for him.

I feel proud when he says, “Make a right circle,” and I can actually do it. Landing, however is a different matter. I hesitate. He expects me to know how to land. But I have only landed once with an instructor who knows my fears and weaknesses. I take my hands off the control and yell into the headset, “I don’t want to. You land it.”

Of course, this information gets passed on to my husband who proceeds to tell me I have no confidence. “I’m taking lessons, aren’t I,” I retort. Bravery my fall back. I decide not to give up the lessons. Who knows, I may save his life some day.

Flying Lesson #3

The Plane I'm learning to fly

I almost turn around and drive back home. The dark clouds make me hesitate, because I know we can’t have a flying lesson in bad weather. I failed to call and forgot my cell phone. But when I get to the airport, Glenn, the instructor, says not to worry. The clouds are at 11,000 feet and we will fly at about 4,500 feet. Just my luck.

 Now, for the first time, I am allowed to touch the coveted throttle. Like a gas pedal, except it’s a little handle you push in and out to give the engine gas. An important part of the plane, I learn. Keep having to think whether “in” is go or “out” is go, but seems I’m still confused whether left is right or right is left. I guess it comes naturally for some folk.

 The morning weather is beautiful. Not hot or sunny. We make it to our usual training grounds, do a couple of circles, and proceed to the next step. Stalls. A scary word any way you look at it. No way do I want to manage a plane that has lost its power to fly.

 As demonstrated to me, if Glenn turns on the carburetor heat control (whatever that is) reduces the throttle and pulls back hard on the yoke bringing the nose a little above the horizon, the engine will slow down to where the air can’t lift the plane any more. Whatever happens, a beep goes off and I jump. The nose dives.

 Glenn revs the gas and brings the nose back to normal level. Now he wants me to try the roller coaster ride. I never liked roller coasters. They make me sick, so I tell him I want to watch again. The third time, I agree to hold the yoke, if he will work the throttle. He does so, and we plunge at least 400 feet instead of his 100 feet. Good thing we are high in the sky. By the fifth time, I learn how to stall, but it seems that recovering from a stall is the vital part. I forgot to push in the throttle. Duh. We quit stalls. Maybe I’ll do better next lesson.

 We land, and Glenn explains that learning to recover from a stall is helpful when learning to land. Not that we ever want to stall, he reminds me.

 So I pay my dues and Glenn compliments me on my calm demeanor during stalls. At least this time, I kept my panicking heart from showing fear on my face. Either that, or he’s trying to boost my courage for another lesson. I finally drive home to find something for my roller-coaster-like queasy stomach.

Mattie’s Place #2

I take the two bags of old papers found in the dilapidated shack and dump them on the counter top.  Curiosity gets the better of me. Wiping the off each item with a damp paper towel, I sort  the trash-like items into stacks of pictures, old letters, newspaper clippings, and official documents. Most of it goes into the trashcan beside me. I don’t keep the hundreds of Christmas cards with a simple signature. If a note is on it, then I keep it.

 I go through the documents and realize I’ve never heard these names. Well, then, I’m not from around here, what do I expect? I find birth announcements, report cards,  a death certificate dated April 3, 1929, and another dated April 7, 1927. The bank statements bear the name Theodore McDaniel. I open a marriage license between a Mattie McDaniel and N.L. Walker, dated 1954. Don’t tell me there isn’t a story here!

 I enlist Ma’s help. She’s lived in this area over 40 years. She confirms that the last person to live in the old house was Theodore (or Buck, as he was called) and he died more than 20 years ago from a tree that fell on him a few hundred yards away.

 Well, I’m bound to learn more. It will take time to sort out the letters by date and read them. There’s also two more old houses to search.

Mattie’s Place Discovered

December 27, 2010

I found my calling. A historian. Or collector of junk, whichever way you look at it.

Carthage, Texas, is the least likely place to find authentic artifacts, but it goes like this. Pa purchased 11 acres adjacent to the pine cabin he built on his 100 acres. The new purchase has 3 old constructions on it. One, a nineteenth-century wooden house. The sound of Pa’s tractor and brushhog resound behind me as he proceeds to level the overgrown brush. No one has been inside the dilapidated building in many decades, which tempts me to make my way through the overgrown vines and up the rickety stairs.

The floors are sound and the roof has held out the rain. Tossed, half empty, boxes, trampled rags, and electrical wiring, nuts and bolts cover the floor of the two rooms. Pa is intent on destroying the old building, and I want to see if anything is salvageable.

I stumble through the debris and overturned boxes, discovering half-eaten letters among the mouse-made confetti. At this point, I get a little nervous. It dawns on me I could disturb a mouse family and I start to withdraw, but I hear Pa’s tractor and know the contents in this long-ago home have been given one last chance at divulging its secrets.

I collect a stack of faded sepia photos of someone’s grandparents. I stack up an assortment of 1930’s Christmas cards scattered around the floor. I discover a box of documents, handwritten letters, Depression bank statements. Buttons, a chipped china tea cup, a mason jar. At this point, I don’t know if anything valuable exists, but I wonder who lived here, why they left, and who were these sweet children holding their mama’s hand?

So my expedition of the day results in two large bags of damp, half-chewed refuse. Not bad for an amateur sleuth. Or a crazy lady.

More than Bubble Wrap

What ranks high for the 2010 Christmas so far!

Watching my grandson’s preschool program and as the others are singing Rudolph, this 3-year-old yells from the stage, “Hi, Grandma!” while waving both hands.

Sharing the gospel with a Chinese girl over hot tea and Sweet Mung Bean Soup.

Watching a fantastic Christmas play directed by my daughter.

Choosing our live Christmas tree from the Christmas tree farm.

In their excitement of decorating their first Christmas tree, letting two foreign college students put every single ornament we’ve ever owned on the tree.

Hearing a Chinese girl ask, “Is Santa Claus and Jesus the same person?” knowing it gave me a chance to explain.

Listening to my twin granddaughters play the clarinet together at their first band concert.

Saying my grandson had an excellent voice when he sang with his school choir – of course I could distinguish him.

Having a tea party with my 6-year-old granddaughter on her December birthday. 

Using my deceased Aunt Blanche’s painting for some Christmas cards.

Sending a package of toys, socks, pencils to handicapped kids in India.

Cooking taco soup for about 60 college students right before finals.

Seeing my teenage granddaughter dress up in a dressy dress.

Buying all Mardel’s little pink NIV Bibles for International students.

Watching my husband on the game show at his company party.

God is good! Can’t wait to see what the next week will bring!