There were others I've not written about but that I remember well.
Anyway, I circled the field. The runway had no yellow X's painted on it. There were no NOTAMs saying it was closed, so I dragged it a couple of times checking it out, then decided to land.
I hadn't intended to, but suddenly I felt the pull of older days when I was in and out of there a lot, often with my father or grandfather, my husband, my mom, my mini-me and the boys. So I set down on the old familiar strip.
This was the runway I'd first flown the old Beech from, my grandfather right-seating it as he coached me through taxi practice in the big tail-wheeler, then teaching me wrist-action on the throttles to keep it lined up and straight on the take-of, not forgetting to lock the tail wheel, then managing throttles and rpm, cowl flaps, flaps and gear as we climbed out. Then flying around the flag pole, as he called it, doing pattern work, remembering to lock the tail wheel before landing, he teaching me all the tricks to minimize landing roll, pounding into my head the need for stabilized approaches no matter what the wind and weather, watching that airspeed like a hawk, crabbing it, slipping it...
Oh, he was a stern instructor. But he knew everything there was to know about flying any kind of airplane there was. And he passed it all on to me, or as much of it as I was capable of absorbing. And in later years my own flying taught me that I knew how to do things when I needed to do them that I didn't know I knew because he had taught them to me and embedded them in my brain, filed away for use in time of need.
My father taught me how to fly out of this airfield, flying one of Duane's old rentals, Cherokees and Tomahawks, an ancient Piper Colt and an even more ancient Piper Cub to learn managing a tail dragger, a Citabria to lean basic aerobatics before I got the full dose from an old AVG pilot down in SoCal.... When, years later, the Navy thought they'd teach me how to fly it was all so familiar -- and none of the instructors were even close to being as hard on me as gramps and even my dad. But granddad was the toughest. By God, he was going to make sure I did it right, whatever it was. There was no "or else." I would do it. Period. And do it till I could do it in my sleep, exactly right every time. Thank you, thank you, dear grandfather. I'm still inhaling and exhaling thanks to you.
I parked the plane in its old spot, shut down and climbed out. There was a light breeze in the sparkling sunshine. The sun was warm on the ramp. Everything was as it was. I walked over to the operations shack, tried the door, locked of course. I expected that. I don't know why I tried to open it. Habit, I guess. I peered in the window, half-expecting to see everything trashed. But nothing was disturbed as far as I could tell. It was just empty.I stepped up onto the porch, appreciating the coolness of the shade, and walked over to the diner, my hand automatically reaching for the screen door. It opened but the inner door was closed and locked. Inside I could see the counter and stools, make out the coffee urn and other tools of the trade. Nothing was touched. Maybe the average passer-by didn't realize the airport was closed, so left it unvandalized. I walked over to the door to the restroom. Locked, of course. I went around to the parking lot and saw a car parked and for a second thought someone must be here, then realized I recognized the car, had driven it. It was an old Chevy, one of the beaters Duane kept on hand for pilots to borrow. Why was it parked outside? Who knows? Maybe Duane had put it there so people would think somebody was here, same as I thought for a sec.
I went back to the diner and sat down on the bench on the porch and looked out over the empty flight line. The past stirred. All those people. Everybody's gone now, I thought.
Duane passed away shortly after he shut down the airport and retired. I didn't even know about it till someone casually mentioned it. That gave me a jolt. Not only because he'd died, but that I hadn't known. No one told me. He was important to me, a friend of years. But I guess no one considered me his friend, probably never even thought about me. Well, that's how it goes. How many people do you know and like that others in your circle don't know about at all? Or how many in their circle don't know about you?
Randy left when the airport closed, of course. He was thinking about leaving even before then. There was not enough work to keep him busy. I knew where he went at first, but he's moved on from there and I've lost touch. That's also the way it goes. People in your life for years, then one day, not.
I don't know where Jim is. I asked around once and most people just shrugged. One guy said he'd heard he'd tangled with some power lines crop-dusting somewhere in Georgia. But who knows?
And Butch? I don't know. I remember Duane saying that when he told him that he was going to shut down, Butch just said that he'd been looking for a job when he arrived and he'd be looking for one when he left. And that's what he did. He left. Got on his motorcycle and rode away. At least with a few more dollars in his jeans than when he left. All the work he did to resurrect the airport diner and bring in customers...ultimately futile, accomplished to no end. Like so much of the effort we put into this life.
So I'll never see any of those people ever again.
And my grandfather and my father are both gone, too. And my husband. So many and so much that were are not any more. Who's next to go?
Maybe me.
