Tremendous tides in the air are washing to and fro across our continent. They represent the weapons of Winter, breaking the defenses of Summer. Between the battlelines, we have the Fall season. Beautiful thing. Fall. It seems to be the last flash of Summer life before it dies for Winter and the age-old cycle starts.
The resurrection of Spring. The gentle molding of plant and life through Summer. Fall is only the brief period in which all things are permitted to vainly burst into full color-ripen into full usefulness. Did you ever notice this is the shortest season? During its crowning glory, either the reaper's scythe falls the plant because it's needed elsewhere, or its soul is carefully tucked away, perhaps within a tree. The leaves fall, its color gone, the tree stands dead-looking and forlorn against the white of Winter. The tree is not dead, for as the cycle whirls and Winter passes into Spring, life springing eternal becomes visible again.
Now the airman has an unusual opportunity to see and to sense the marvels of the changing seasons. If, only for selfish defense, he must keep a wary eye on the weather. Unless he is hypnotized by the mechanics of his flying contrivance, the pilot, as he watches these changes come over hundreds of square miles below him--must think further. Yes, an airman can get a bigger kick from the changing of the seasons, than one with only a restricted view of his own six feet of earth.
My, how airplanes change hands during the Fall. For eager beavers who want to get in the air, Fall is probably the best time to buy an airplane. Fellow pilots who have owned them and want to change models, invariably offer their ships for sale in the Fall. Operators let loose of equipment that is good and at reasonable prices. Flying naturally falls off a bit in Winter --and, too,--an operator likes to have a different choice of ships for his students and rental customers. They get bored with the same planes.
On Municipal airport stands a shiny and bright red Porterfield. Looks like it just came out of a new hat box. The only trouble is, it didn't. It's one of the most venerable aircraft around here. Originally it came from Goshen, I think, before the days of old Sportsman's airport. Later, it flew from Sportsman's with Paul Lowman as its owner.
I don't know where the Porterfield went for a couple years, but "Chick" Herendeen started to fly in it at Rochester, moved it with him to his own field near Mentone. The Porterfield was completely rebuilt a couple of years ago, repainted, recovered, new motor. Oh the old girl got the works in the way of face-lifting, till now she's pretty once again. Three enterprising Warsaw pilots now own the Porterfield. This "corporation" consists of Kenny Linn, mechanic at Municipal; Bill Ettinger, Joe E's son, who works for Jake Menzie, and Max Bumbaugh--the guy who builds those Center Lake ice boats. They all three fly and should have a grand time with the Porterfield. Some grand times have been had in it, believe me.
Winona's L. M. "Hank" Henderson now owns an Ercoupe. The neat and well-kept job that Paul Lowman rented this Summer was sold to Hank a few days ago. The flying electrician will enjoy the Ercoupe. Easy to fly and reasonably safe, it affords real lazy flying. Same kind of a ship Hobart Creighton buzzes around the state.
By the way, I'm pleased by an invitation from Purdue university to address the Annual Aviation Clinic there in October. Make the keynote talk of the two-day conference, no less! I see by a tentative program that I'm sandwiched between the general manager of the Aircraft Owners and Pilots association from Washington, and some professors from Harvard, who will tell the boys how to make money, come bad times or good. I'm looking forward to the confab with pleasant anticipation. It's always nice to take part in a conference--when they let you do the talking!
Sky Writing has been somewhat neglected lately as we remodeled and moved to the south end of Detroit street. By we, I mean Snuffy-the-dog, who has recovered from being shot; red-headed Mrs. Mollenhour, who thinks she'll never recover from moving and the two tiny birdmen, Kenny and Jerry, who deflate my ego by going to sleep whenever we go airplane riding. Anyway, the move is now over--like checkers--we can go on about our business and part of it will be better Sky Writing --more often.
Warsaw Daily Times Monday Sept. 20, 1948