I am reading a book with the underlining theme of
regret. Rumble by Ellen Hopkins is a young adult book with an 18-year-old
main character who is full of regret. What can he possibly regret this early in
his life?
Reflecting on my life, one regret sticks out. I was
24 years old living in Memphis and proudly flew my 1969 Citabria back to Smyrna
to show off to all the guys. As an aerospace student at MTSU, I worked the
counter at Smyrna Air Center for two years. All the flight instructors used to
be classmates except one, Col. Hawn.
Col. Hawn had his own office with a small desk and
chair across from the counter. He would lean his chair back and kick up his
legs on the desk to keep the pressure off his knees critiquing all our bonehead
maneuvers through the smoky haze of his soiled pipe.
He was once a dashing Spitfire pilot in World War
II. His war photo says it all. Col. Hawn looks at the camera, hat askew and fresh
leather jacket bound, grinning with a pencil thin mustache. His career started
outside of Memphis in a plane he rebuilt from a wreck. His instructor, Red, was
paid in whiskey.
In his office was a book with pictures of all the
airplanes of the world. Col. Hawn circled two thirds of the military planes
indicating the ones he flew left seat. At the airport, he had a Cessna 150 and
a Swift that he kept clean in a hangar. It was necessary for me to fly the 150,
but it was an honor to be allowed to pilot the Swift.
Just thinking back, I can smell his pipe and see the
yellowed interior of his little 150. We flew it down to Muscle Shoals for my
first cross country and he slept on the return trip forcing me to navigate as
if alone. All the jokes about Col. Hawn’s narcolepsy finally made sense.
In order to fly his Swift, I had to open the hangar,
tow the plane onto the tarmac, and await further instructions. It was a blustery
day in February, both of us suffering with spring fever, when we took off. The
Swift literally jumped into the air and we were at altitude in no time. Col.
Hawn took me through a series of rolls and loops. The thing I most remember is
his grabbing the wheel with both hands and running up behind a Cessna 152 pretending
to shoot machine gun style with his fingers. He was fun.
My regret, and I shudder thinking about it, was not
allowing him to pilot my plane. When I returned to Smyrna that day he was 76
years old and using a cane. He asked and I begged off blaming a family
obligation in Gallatin. His eyes fell and so did my heart.
I had possibly 30 hours logged in the plane and I was
afraid that if something happened I would not be able to land from the back
seat. I also had concern about his weight. He was a tall man and easily weighed
250 lbs. To this day, I hate that I let my fear keep this sweet man from having
fun.
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