Thad Remembers Dad
2011 #7

Dad always said that when children were born they were like wild animals and needed to be tamed. So he had a black leather switch, some three feet long. He hung it up by the window in the kitchen. When he sat down to a meal the switch was visible right over his shoulder. It was a continual, silent statement of who was the boss. One time Alan, Mac, and I did something bad (since Dad's tolerance for bad behaviour was very high it must have been very bad). He had us three stand together in the middle of the plaadyroom and whipped us around the shins. It really stung and we were hopping around howling. We promised never to do it again and we were released.

For someone who had to leave 8th grade in order to go to work, Dad achieved a level of extraordinary intellectual accomplishment along with a wide range of activities and involvement in the world.

He maintained a bee hive and would use his screened hat and protective clothing when he smoked the bees. The hive was in back of the house on the south side of the driveway. He would, now and then, give a brief lecture on what he was doing.

He studied birds and loved them. On one of the south windows of the playroom he set up a bird feeder and attached an electric shock system on the feeder tray. When squirrels came onto the feeder he would scare them off by pressing a button. He had the button next to his easy chair.

He studied astronomy and had a telescope he would bring out into the front yard on summer nights. The constellations of stars was a continual topic of conversation with him. We would sometimes lie on our backs on a blanket in the yard and look for the constellations as he pointed them out. I picked out the Big and Little Dipper but little more. On rare occasions we would see an Aurora Borealis. We would invariably have the yard filled with lightning bugs. We would get jars, pierce holes in the lids with hammer and nail, and capture them. It was a treat to see them all together with their flickering light. We would let them go.

He made an in depth study of Geology and Anthropology. He would lecture us at great length on pithecanthropus erectus and other prehistoric humans. (Whenever I read the phrase "pithecanthropus erectus" I hear his voice in my mind as if he were standing there.)

Dad would read science and philosophy but no fiction. When the US started sending out rockets he made an in depth study of the issue. Before long we saw big drawings on the black boards with white chalk
describing the angles, speed and other things that the rockets were involved with. He joined the American Rocket Society and attended a big luncheon in Washington, DC, where some of the top names in the field were gathering. He talked to a number of big name scientists at his table, and when the meal was over, one of them said "I thought you said you ran a laundry."

One time he was reading David Hume and he read a paragraph aloud. After reading it he said "As I see it, he is saying........" Then he asked my opinion. Before long we would read paragraphs together...first he would read one....give his view of it and then I would read another one and give my view. I would learn later on that this was called "internalizing." It was surprising to me how you could make sense out of some highfalutin language.

The Great Depression was in the 30s and Socialism was a widely discussed topic. Dad joined the St. Louis chapter of the party and was an active member. When Norman Thomas, the Socialist candidate for President, came to St. Louis, Dad was asked to chauffeur him around the city, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch printed a big picture of both of them in the large open air limosine; they got mixed up on the caption and said that Dad was Thomas.

Judge Naylor Davis, the Lieutenant Governor of Missouri, lived kitty corner from us on the northeast corner of Harrison and Washington. He was a gentle, affable man who would sometimes walk by when we were playing ball and, always smiling, say something amusing. One day dad and I were on our front screened porch. Dad was having a ball watching his wrens, his favorite bird. They were going in and out of their little house when Judge Davis walked up to join us. He began to tell Dad what when on last week in Jefferson City. As soon as he began to speak, Dad would point out what one of the wrens was doing ("Look at this one!"). Again, when the judge began to talk Dad found delight in some other activity with his wrens ("Watch this one go in!"). the judge then quietly said, "I guess you don't want to hear about Jefferson City," and he got up and left. I was more than embarassed....I was mortified. Dad insulted not only a wonderful, gentle neighbor but one of the top officials in State government. I asked Dad why he didn't want to hear news about Jefferson City. He said, "It's just gossip." This really puzzled me: my Dad who wouldn't hurt anything or anyone showed me a side of his personality that I hadn't seen before or since.

Dad was President of the Kirkwood school board and a very active one. He presided at all the high school graduations. My Tillman was the school superintendent and when he died, Dad had one of the grade schools (near Curran Avenue) named after him. When I made the varsity football team in high school I heard one of the students tell another one that I made it because of Dad's position. I thought the idea was ludicrous. Later on I began to wonder if there might be some truth to it.

All during the Depression Dad kept his laundry business going. It took a lot of work. I remember one time one of the huge drying machines broke down and he spent the night working with Al Evers, his mechanic.
He came home early the next morning, just in time to head back to work. At one point the deliverymen went on strike. Dad got some threatening phone calls and he asked the police to park out in front. I remember seeing them parked but, at the time, didn't know why.

Dad and Monnie played bridge, usually each week. For a number of years they played with Jack and Dorothy Donovan. They would take turns in hosting. It was always coffee and coffee cake. Dorothy was a liberal and they had much in common except that Jack was always more conservative politically. As young as I was I would always be nearby and get a sense of the what the dialogue was about.

Before long we would be flying.

Thad Remembers Dad
2011 #8

We would sometimes go to Lambert Field to watch the planes take off and land. We would go around the hangars to see the planes up close. Each plane interior had a smell which seemed to be a mixture of gasoline and airplane dope.

We took a ride in a Ford Tri-Motor, the airliner of the 30s. I know it took us around St. Louis but I don't remember about the ride except the seats. They were made of yellow woven cane like the street car seats.

We discovered a little airport west of Kirkwood on Highway 66, halfway between Kirkwood and Valley Park. It was called Bransons and was run by Ray Branson and his wife who ran the little snack bar. We went there a lot, parking by the hanger and watching the light planes, mostly Piper Cubs, take off and land. We were almost directly under their flight path and could see their underbellies with the toy-like puffy wheels going over no more than fifty-sixty feet up. Sometimes they would take off over the phone lines along the highway and sometimes they would come into landings over the lines....it was all close up and intimate.

Dad got me a ride in an open cockpit biplane. I remember the engine roaring but could hardly look out. I was ten years old and too short to see out over the cockpit.

Dad had been talking now and then about learning to fly and in about a year he decided to do it. He got two instructors and would take each one as their time allowed. One of them was a quietly, gentle people friendly man. The other was quite brusque. Dad rented the Cubs and paid the instructors on top of that. At night after each lesson he would talk about what they did and how the instructors behaved.

On the days I could be there, Saturdays and Sundays, I would sit with him at the little snack bar and listen to him talk to the other pilots and student pilots. One day Elmer said, "Hollis, how old are you?" Without a second's pause he said "37." On the way home I asked him why he said "37." He said "Because it's none of their business!"

Days went by. Dad would take lessons in the morning on the way to work. One morning I was in class at Junior High School, Nipher Junior High. The teacher said "Your Dad's out in the hall and wants to see you." I went out and he said "I soloed this morning." I shook his hand (later on I thought maybe that was an odd thing to do....as if we were equals,,,,pals). He said they had taken off and landed two times and when they landed the second time, the instructor got out and said "You take it from here." I learned later that that was standard practice....not to schedule the solo time so the student wouldn't get rattled.

The law required student pilots to have at least eight hours of instruction before they could solo. Dad took twelve. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch had a big article in the paper with a picture of him sitting in his Cub. The headline was something like "Businessman Age 52 Solos"....as if 52 was old.

Thad Remembers Dad
2011 #9

After Getting his Private License, Dad started doing a lot of flying. He could hardly wait to show me what "Crazy Eights" was about. You would pretend there was a horizontal 8 in the sky and try to outline it. You would go up to the left, down to the left, up to the right, and down to the right...all the while the engine was roaring full blast. I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Can we do something else?" Then he was likely to start a power-on stall, the most uncomfortable maneuver I've ever been through:

You would bring the nose up, put on full power and climb, climb, climb. Maybe it was me but I felt the plane starting to shake as it strained to keep its altitude. Then when it couldn't climb anymore it would suddenly slip back down with a WHIPLASH! You could feel the plane want to break into two pieces....you could hear the fuselage strain (or crack). Then I would ask him if we could do something else and he would begin a gentle stall. These are fun...a quiet rocking....soothing. Then he would turn it into a slow spin,,,,nothing alarming. Cubs don't like to spin; they want to go straight. I could see the control stick push forward and the aileron control go the opposite direction from the spin and out we came. It's simple: if you're in a Cub and iting, simply push the stick forward...to gain speed....and twist the plane in an opposite direction in which it was spinning. In large planes this was not so easy.

We began to travel more around down town St. Louis and follow the curvature of the river front. And once we flew to Lambert Field. All these months we had been flying 40 HP planes. By now Ray had purchaes two pretty 50 HP Cubs. The extra power we needed at the big field.Though there were a lot of commercial planes there....many with radios... private pilots were welcome. We first identified the wind sock to see which direction the wind was blowing...then we began circling the perimeter of the field keeping our eyes on the spot where we could go in, against the wind, for a landing. As we approached that spod eyes fixed on the airport's control tower. If we saw a green light shining at us we know we had been okayed to land. If we saw a red light it would mean don't do anything....keep circling the airport....there's a plane due to land or take off before you. Once we landed we taxied up to one of the hangars..I'm not sure what we did...I think we chatted with some mechanics or pilots.

Then we taxied to the runway we knew....from wind directions...would be the take off spot. We saw a red light (those must have been very powerful flash lights) which meant hold still. We wanted a few moments and then got the green. Off we went to Meramec airport. I don't know how Dad knew the procedures to use at Lambert....I guess that was part of the training to be a private pilot. On the way back we flew up to 6,000 feet where it was cold....really cold on a hot summer's day.

One time he asked me if I wanted to take off. I took control, revved up the engine and began making the tail go back and forth, fishtailng out of control. I said, "Take it." And we took off smoothly. After we circled the airport he asked me if I wanted to land it. I took over the controls and did what I had been rehearsing for months and months. (We're crossing the river and the tall trees are right there...and it's always kind if daring to see how close we are to the trees). We're moving leftward over the trees and you pull the throttle back, put the stick slightly forward and at the same time you give left aileron (to bank left) and at the same time you give left rudder so the plane has changed direction and heading for a landing. You keep going straight, letting the air speed go down....then down....then down...and as you are about to stall....or maybe in the act of stalling....at 35 mph you pull the stick all the way back. At this point you should have made contact with the magic HORIZONTAl and are rolling along the grass. Did I actually land it myself or did Dad have his hands gently on the stick so I couldn't tell....and maybe he was in control throughout.

Dad began taking the kids of his friends for rides....there were lines of them at the airport waiting to get on board. One little girl wanted badly to go up but her mother wouldn't permit it.

And it was about this time that Dad started talking about flying up to his hometown, Butler, Illinois, some sixty miles away south of Springfield.

Thad Remembers Dad
2011 #10 - BUTLER

Dad was born in 1888 in Butler, Ill, a little village among the cornfields south of Springfield. In the 30s he bought the homestead from his siblings and he would take Monnie and a bunch of us kids there in the summer to escape the St. Louis heat. The house had a well with manual pump.....a strange machine for us suburban kids. It had a two-hole out house that I found extremely unpleasant.....and scary with the wasps noisily circulating all about. All this didn't bother Monnie, she was so relieved to get away from the city heat.

In roaming around the old farm house I went into the attic to investigate and found among the papers on the floor a moldy reproduction of a Cezanne still life. I was surprised. I was old enough to know that Cezanne was the "Father of Modern Art" and I couldn't get over the conflict of cultures. I couldn't visualize what these old time farm people would see when looking at a Cezanne.

It is odd that I can't remember how I spent the time there....or my siblings either. I nagged Monnie to take me to Hillsboro and buy me a new ball glove. That was the highlight of my Butler experience up until then.

The excitement in life grew when Dad came to deliver us one time and talked about the possibility of finding a wheatfield near the house where he could land his Cub. Now THAT was interesting! He and I drove around looking and found a possible landing site....a wheat field. Dad went to the farmhouse and explained his interest to the farmer and asked if he would mind our walking the length of the field to check for obstacles. He said okay, so we went up and down the length of the field and found plenty of smooth dirt. That's where we would land the following week. We explained the plan to Monnie and my brothers.Dad and I drove back to Kirkwood.

Back at Bransons Dad pulled up the necessary map (I think only one was needed because you could actually fly using the highways as direction. But Dad would be using the compass). We took off early one morning and headed straight for Butler and the landing site. Dad memorized exactly where the field was located. As we descended over the the telephone wires I saw the farmer. He appeared to be frightenend and was running toward his house. I thought at the time "Why is he frightened? He knew we were coming." But in retrospect how would he know that the plane would appear so huge over his wires? Of course he was frightened.

We landed perfectly and by the time we got out of the plane dozens of people had come to see us. Monnie and my brothers drove up. Dad asked the farmer if he would designate someone to guard the plane. That was done quickly and easily, and Monnie drove us to the house. We spent maybe an hour there going over the main sights of our trip (which weren't many in that flat land). And Monnie drove us back to the field.

We got to the plane and Dad easily turned it around to face the depth of the field......the fuselage near the tail had a handle designed for turning the plane. And with the motor as a counterweight, lifting the tail wasn't as difficult as it might appear. Now that the plane was pointed in the right direction, the engine had to be manually cranked to start. Just like the Model T Fords. At that time there were no automatic starters on little Cubs.

The man cranking the engine would face the plane and place the propeller in a 10 o'clock position. He would put his hands on the outer most part of the propeller blade and suddenly pull downward (counterclockwise). I had heard of arms being broken in the process but never saw any problems. But before he would do the cranking he would wait for the pilot to set the ignition and throttle just so. The cranker would call out "CONTACT?" and to verify that the controls were set and ready the pilot would reply "Contact". When the cranker heard the pilot say "Contact" he would yank the propeller downward using a good bit of his body weight. The engine didn't always start at once but it usually did. In this illustration you can see the propeller is set at 10 o'clock and ready to be cranked.

But Dad didn't have anyone to crank his engine. He had to do it himself. The picture below shows the position he had to place his body in to do the cranking. He had to hold on to the edge of the cockpit with his left hand and reach out to the propeller with his right hand. You can see that from here he couldn't reach the outer edge of the propeller where the leverage would be perfect. He could reach maybe halfway out on the propeller, hardly any leverage at all. But with all those odds against him he reached as far as he could, stiffened his arm and brought it down with a VICIOUS SLAP! That's all it took. (I had never seen this maneuver before. Looking back years later it became obvious that this wasn't the first time he had done this. He would certainly have consulted with veteran pilots and practiced diligently). With the engine started, he climbed into his seat, and we began rolling down the wheat field with increasing speed and began the take-off. We were on our way to St. Louis.

Dad set his compass and all was easy going except halfway home the tail section began to shake as if it were hit by a sledge hammer. It happened four or five times but we made it safely. When we got back to Bransons the mechanics opened the engine and found parts of a bird. How that would shake the rudder of the plane puzzled me and the mechanics as well.