It was a lovely weekend. Sunday was a day right out of a picture book for airmen. I got into the air late Saturday afternoon when a bad fire was reported at the Manwaring Leghorn farm, southeast of Mentone. Fire departments involved had done a wonderful job, of when we arrived over the neat layout of buildings at "White City," not even a wisp of smoke was left.

Bright red fire rigs could be seen strategically spotted around the large two-story barn with one story wings. The white paint around the huge doors was blackened by fire and heat. There was a big hole visible in the roof, but the structure was standing. A pumper was parked one hundred yards northeast of the fire, where it appeared the Manwarings had wisely provided a water source. White hose twisted over the blue grass carpet from this truck to the endangered barn.

Mrs. Howard Dyson, formerly Josephine Lafler was with me at that time. "Jo" was visiting over the week-end with my red-headed twins, Alice and Helen. Since she had gone along for the ride, I tried an interesting experiment. Jo is a champion tennis player, a feminine athlete. Fact is, she instructs the stuff at Northwestern. Her reactions and co-ordination are above average and I wondered how long it would take her to get the hang of an airplane.

En route back from the Manwaring fire, I gave Jo the briefest fundamentals of airplane controls--then just turned the plane over to her. Within 15 minutes she was making fairly decent turns to the right and left without difficulty. See? Anyone can fly. Jo had never touched plane controls before.

Early Sunday morning, Alice and I slipped out of bed while our house full of people were still asleep and flew for an hour down the Tippecanoe river, drinking in the color, enjoying the beautiful day. You know, it would be impossible on a Sunday morning with the heavens your cathedral, a fleecy cloud an alter, to long remain an atheist or an agnostic. Airmen, more than any other, can sense, feel and almost see the invisible power which holds this universe together.

En route west along the river, we could see Hobart Creighton's landing strip, plainly marked against the quilted pattern of regular fields. Something new had been added. Parked in a grove of trees at the west end of the strip was the twin-engine Cessna owned by Freddy Strauss Jr. Fred has bought a home near the Creighton strip, has permission to use it, taxi to his own back-door. At the other end of the strip, Mr. Creighton's own Ercoupe glistened silver in the sunlight.

Nearly everyone with wings enjoyed a little chunk of the day. At Smith Field, a gentleman from Wapakoneta, Ohio and his two small daughters climbed out of their airplane for a stretch. Out for a Sunday morning drive in the sky, they had stopped for gas. They were Mr. Wendell Spear, president of the Standard Churn company, and Dottie 7, Mary Lou, aged 9.

Tom Witmer, of Larwill and Bob Orcutt flew to Laporte. Emms Moser winged it to Muncie.

Foundryman Matt Dalton was enjoying himself so much he returned to Municipal airport with fellow-worker Bob Moore in tow. Bob went skyriding and so did Bob, Jr. 10, Maureen, 6, Little Jimmy Dalton, who says he is five and ONE-HALF went too.

Just to make Sunday dinner more interesting, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Newcomb of Burket flew Joe Carlin's Cessna to Bunker Hill for their meal. You land right in front of the restaurant there.

One of the most proficient aerial hitch-hikers in the business today is Joe and Dora Carlin's tiny-mite Fritz. No bigger than a peanut and cut as a button, he industriously begs rides from every pilot that heads for an airplane on the line. He gets a lot of them too! He know more makes of planes on sight than I do.

We took time out in mid-afternoon when the wind became a little chesty. When the gusts begin to talk back to your controls, its time for me to stay on the ground.

We all went out to the river, lay in hammocks and listened to a giant cottonwood tree gossip busily in the breeze. As evening approached and the wind quieted down, the drone of airplanes filtered through the clicking of the cottonwood leaves. Our fever slowly mounted till at eight o'clock Kenny, Jerry and I drove back to the airport for one more look, just to say goodbye to a glorious day.

The sun was dropping under the trees as we banked away from the field. A thick ring of mysterious purple encircled the earth, hiding everything below. As the last fingers of red whisked away in the falling night, evidence of man began to twinkle here and there in the purple, as lights were turned on. We had really had a good time.

I have a letter I'm going to frame and save to blackmail the circulation department with. It is probably the only one of its kind I'll ever get. A kind hearted--and in my opinion a very smart fellow, one Verle Ludwig from Kokomo writes that he subscribed to The Times just to get the aviation column which he had been told appeared herein. He couldn't find it and was complaining. Mr. Ludwig, Sky Writing appears every Monday for sure. More often when something extra special comes along.

As the new runways and taxiways at Municipal Airport shape up, so do the plans for the big dedication June 13 and the airshow that goes with it. The flights of military ships will be thrilling. The new planes on display will be interesting. The roar of ships in aerobatics will be wonderful. Bob McCombs low ground flying is a sight. But the deal that I am a sucker for is the old-fashion balloon ascension. Everyone helps fill the big bag, holding it away from the hot air fire till the big envelope stands puffing and extended pulling at its ropes. There is a real thrill when it rushes silently away from the ground, with a man dangling beneath its black mass. When this fellow drops with his parachute and the balloon slowly turns over like a dying whale, trails black smoke to the ground then I chew my fingernails clear down to my elbows. I sure like those balloon ascensions.

I notice that more and more folks are beginning to drive out to the airport on Sunday afternoon, park in the roomy space provided and watch the airplanes take-off and land. It's fun to watch, but it's more fun to fly.

Warsaw Daily Times Mon. May 24, 1948