Nebraska

It called for another spin around the patch

A Boy's Dream

The very thought of that day in 1955 puts me in an ethereal state of happy memories. It was a slow motion movie of the rest of my life. I was five years old when from the front porch of our Nebraska farmhouse, nine miles north of Central City, my brother, my parents, and I watched a Cessna 172 Skyhawk land on State Highway 14 in front of our house. The pilot, whom I had never met, was TV personality Carl Sisskind, my father's shoestring relation by marriage. Accompanying him was my Grandfather Harvey Lippincott.

Carl taxied into our yard that balmy Sunday and changed my global perspective. Before we left, Carl had convinced my parents to let a five-year-old boy and his seven-year-old brother make a seventy-mile maiden flight to Kearney, Nebraska.

Carefully hoisted into the backseat, my brother Jerry and I were buckled in. Carl did his run-up in the driveway and then taxied toward the highway, leaving my dad and pregnant mother behind. When he was sure that the road was clear of traffic, he rolled out onto the two-lane blacktop, and we took off to the north, away from the power lines. We accelerated at a fantastic rate; then when it seemed we could go no faster, we began to float in the air. My heart raced with the increase in altitude; it was all so fantastic and revealing. I thought, "So this is what it is like for the birds." It was impossible to take in everything at first in the three-dimensional adventure. The view from above was so unusual that I wanted more. I recognized most of the neighboring countryside, but now I saw it from an aerial perspective. I had just "slipped the surly bonds of earth," for the very first time! That adventure remains one of my most memorable and life altering to this day.

The big blue sky was cloudless, and the wind was gentle and welcoming. My nose was riveted to the cold Plexiglas window on the left side behind the pilot-in-command. In the calm air, it was truly exciting to see how small the cars on the highway looked, and that the farmhouses and barns all seemed oddly miniaturized from my perch. The topography was laid out in an organized fashion as the roads stretched like guitar strings to the horizon from my bird's eye view. It was the very essence of the Midwest, the rolling and incredible vast expanse of farmland patchwork. From my seat, I believed that I could indeed see the "whole world" as never before. It looked like a giant sized 3-D map of infinite dimensions. For the first time, I could "see over the horizon." I knew at that moment that someday I would take flight as the sole pilot at the controls. I didn't know exactly how then, but the desire for flight was planted in me that day. The fact that my brother was green and puking his guts out in the right-hand seat did not deter from my personal experience.

I remember Grandfather Harvey turning around in his seat, smiling with satisfaction and patting my knee with his large warm hand. We flew over towns and cities, which all looked so neatly laid out and well contained. The villages had common landmarks of water towers, intersecting highways, and railroads. Then all too soon, our cross-country flight came to an abrupt halt when we started our descent to the airport. The airplane had seemed to stand still when at altitude, but closer to the ground I could tell that we were moving very fast. It was my first time to look down on a runway; at first, the blur seemed to approach us cautiously, but then suddenly I heard the sound of the tires chirping as they first touched the concrete. The ride was over, but my brain was still cataloging all the new information. It had been the best field trip a kid had ever experienced. It was the view, the machine, and the pilot whose motions appeared effortless. It was the feeling — the feeling of acceleration, flotation, and then seemingly we were motionless, just sitting in the air. Wow, that was a lot to take in for a five-year-old.

After we had landed in Kearney, my grandfather and Carl drove us to the Greyhound bus depot in the back of a red 1950 Studebaker pickup truck. After lunch, we were left there to wait for the next bus that would take us to Central City. Unsupervised, with only my brother for company, I was still in a state of overwhelming amazement and giddy enthusiasm. I had experienced my first airplane and bus ride at age five. It was my first experience with the compression of travel time through flight. Not bad for a Sunday in Nebraska. That was truly exciting stuff and the genesis of my constant desire for exploration and adventure — a voyage that has lasted a lifetime.

The year before that memorable flight, I became aware of 34-year-old Ann E. Hodges whose left hip was struck by a meteorite while napping on her living room sofa at home. It left a large contusion but did not break the skin. The Sylacauga Meteorite also left an indelible impression on me and piqued my interest in all things space, aviation, and my personal exposure to flight. It was very exciting for me and seemed to strengthen my connection with the unknown and anything off the beaten path. Wow, meteorites didn't just fall to earth in the ancient past, they were real! The meteorite was news of a tangible...