The WASPS Museum

When Donna asked if she could have her picture taken on the wing of the aircraft like her grandmother, the director of the WASP museum enthusiastically obliged. “Stay on the fuselage,” I heard her say.

What an incredible memory we made at the WASP Museum learning about Donna’s grandmother Marion and about the WASPS. Donna’s blog WASPS

To my knowledge, I had never heard that word before, but I immediately knew what the word must have meant. In my childhood, I heard the phrase, “don’t get off the black strip” every time I climbed up on the wing of daddy’s plane.

Transported back to my Childhood Memories

That one word uncovered such treasured moments. Being only eleven when Daddy died, I don’t have many memories of him. Of the remembrances I do have, his plane and the airport are present. Daddy had acquired his pilot license during his short stay in the US Air Force, while Mom earned hers as a means of taking care of her girls “in case there was ever an emergency while in the air”.

Many of my Sunday afternoons were spent at the airport. Sometimes, we would go up and “fly a pattern”, but other times we simply hung out at the hanger. The adults sat in the lounge sharing stories of the week while my three sisters, two of our best friends (Sarah and Martha), and I would play house, tag, or hide-and-seek around the planes parked outside. With the airport nestled in Copperhill, Tennessee, we often ventured out into the copper-colored gullies, just beyond the tarmac, where each of us claimed a ravine as a pretend home. 

Personal Search Party

One afternoon my older sisters went beyond the gullies because they apparently heard some kids having a birthday party and wanted to check it out. Since Mom’s voice was a little too far out of reach, she sent Daddy in the air for a private search party using the bird’s eye view. He did, they were recovered, and knowing Mom—they probably received a spanking for venturing too far.

Eating What?

Another day while playing hide and seek, I got hungry. I walked inside to grab the Pepperidge Farms snacks Mom ALWAYS brought. As I closed the heavy metal door coming back out, Martha was spotted beside the tire of her daddy’s plane. Everyone came running to base, and my oldest sister Lynn asked what I was eating. Looking at her like she was crazy, I said, “The snacks Mom brought.” 

In the way a big sister corrects, she replied, “Mom did not bring any today.” 

Proving her wrong, I marched over to the door and pointed to the square card table where Mom always set up snacks.. 

Lynn panicked! “That’s not Mom’s snacks; she didn’t bring any. That’s Shultz’s dog food!” (One of the adults had his dog with him.) 

The six of us stood there silently, wondering how much I had just eaten and how sick I would be. Lynn nudged me inside the door as the five of them glued themselves to the window, anticipating my outcome. Slowly, I walked over to Mom, waiting for her to finish talking. I shared the story and waited to see if I would be going to the hospital. I remembered they all laughed. Mom swooped me up and sat me down on the couch with Mrs. Sandy, Sarah and Martha’s mom, assuring me, I would live. 

Flying to Vacations

Being a pharmacist at Talent Drugs provided long hours with few days. However, every summer we flew to Myrtle Beach for a Wednesday through Sunday vacation.

In 1976, while riding in the brown and tan station wagon one evening, Dad proposed a spontaneous trip to Disney World in Florida. Sure enough, the next day much to our delight, by eleven Mom was picking us up at school, and we were walking up the plane wing—staying off the fuselage of course—and buckling up.  

Flying with His Best Friend

Sarah and Martha’s dad and Daddy were the best of friends. He and Daddy often flew together. Mr. Buddy was the local mortician at Finch’s Funeral Home. Mr. Buddy’s personality was definitely not the grim, stone-faced men that are often portrayed at funeral homes in movies. He was one of the joyous men I ever met. He and Daddy had many adventures of their own. Perhaps my favorite stories was their flight to retrieve a body that needed preparation for a funeral.  

On short flights when they had a body, Buddy would sit in the back seat, and they would lie the body in a stretcher that extended from the back seat to the folded front seat. However, this particular trip was a longer flight, and they decided having Buddy co-pilot was a good idea. Their next good idea was to strap the body in an upright position and buckle her in the back seat! 

When nature called and the plane needed a fill up, they landed. Daddy asked the attendant to fill-her-up, and they walked inside. Returning with their usual little glass Coke bottle and a pack of peanut butter crackers, the attendant had an alarming expression. 

“Uh, the lady in the back seat—she hasn’t moved since you’ve been gone! Not a muscle!” 

Buddy paid for the gas and added, “Well, if she had, then there would be some real trouble!” 

Daddy just shook his head. They latched the doors and took off. 

Tribute to a Friend

If I had a dime for every time Mr. Buddy flew his airplane over our house after Daddy passed, I would be a millionaire. I can still hear Mom’s call, “Girls, I hear Buddy.” All five of us, Mom, my three sisters, and me would run out of the house, throw our heads in the air, and begin waving. I think Buddy’s flights helped us know Daddy was a part of him and a part of us too.