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Pilots
The boy's dreams become the man who dreamt them.
Summertime, 1949 - somewhere in Indiana
At eight and seven respectively, my cousin Ron
and I had been co-pilots for as long as I could
remember. Together we had refought the entire
Second World War from the cockpit of the most
elegant, fastest and maneuverable airplane the
world had ever seen.
Our deft craft was approachable only from the
hayloft, easily the weakest and least safe part of
the old barn, which, had there been anyone with the
energy to do it, should have been torn down a
generation earlier. Howard Hughes had his plywood
Spruce Goose--we had the rotting wood, flying barn.
But when you're seven and eight years old you see
things in your own special way and fear is a
function of selective consciousness.
There was a space where the shed roof had sagged
and separated from the eaves at the hayloft's edge,
leaving an opening that looked remarkably like the
front of a B-17 bomber. (Well, we thought so.)
Underneath, right next to the landing gear, the
pigs snorted and grunted in the mud and straw. With
crayons and paint and old boards, we labored at our
artistic and scientific best to create controls and
gauges and signs and all kinds of stuff with which
to fly the thing. Fly we did for untold hours over
those two summers. The war had been over for a few
years, but we still had plenty of maps and pictures
to plan our attacks with...we were the best. It was
during one of these flights of fancy that Ron and I
made a bond about flying. A promise to each other
that no matter what, we would both grow up to be
pilots. We pricked our fingers and traded blood in
solemn oath.
Life, however, has a way of directing us away
from our most enthusiastically planned dreams. The
last time I saw Ron was that summer of 1949. Well,
the last time for about thirty-three years anyway.
After my father's death, the family moved east and
we lost track of the cousins. We moved, they moved,
there was no way to find them.
One night in 1982, as I sat at the dinner table
with my own family, my oldest boy, then twelve,
asked about my father's family. There had never
been anyone from my side at any family functions,
because there weren't any. I was the last namesake
until my boys were born. My son was quite taken by
that fact. But he was not satisfied with the
missing relatives story and kept bugging me in his
best twelve year-old fashion about finding them. So
in one of those rare moments of divinely guided
desperation, knowing of no other way to shut him
up, I picked up the phone and called information in
Indianapolis and asked for my aunt Zelma by name.
Now there happened to be a listing there for the
initial "Z". That was close enough and I placed the
call. She answered the phone in her strongest 86
year-old voice. Ten days later my son and I arrived
in Indianapolis for the reunion.
Of course Ron had gotten his pilot's license. Of
course I flew United, mostly. I remember feeling
strangely uneasy at the time about the fact that I
had not kept that commitment to my cousin. Ron also
owned his own plane, a small Piper four-seater. On
the second day of our visit we went flying. Neither
Ron nor I had forgotten our pledge, but it was
never mentioned. There was no need to. A bond had
been broken between us that was more than just two
kids playing in a barn. It seemed at the time like
not really a big thing but it was greater than and
different from the thirty years of
non-communication. It came to represent the essence
of what brings trust into any relationship. We had
given our word to each other in solemn oath, and I
had broken the oath. It was only two kids playing,
but it was really more than that. It was something
that we all do many times in life. We make it okay
to break our word. We find all the rationale we
need to not complete. We do it as individuals, in
relationships, families, governments but mostly to
ourselves. We make it okay not to keep our
promises. There was a part of each of us that I
disappointed by not learning to fly.
We were only a couple of kids playing in the
barn, but it must have been pretty important at the
time. I think it still is.
© 2007, Kenneth F.
Byers
Other Transition Issues,
Books
* * *
A permanent state of transition is man's most
noble condition. - Juan Ramon Jimenez
Ken Byers
holds a Ph.D. in psychology with an emphasis in
Men's Studies, one of the few ever awarded in the
U.S. Ken is a full time Certified Professional Life
Coach specializing in working with men in any form
of transition and an instructor of design at San
Francisco State University.
His books, "Man
In Transition" and
"Who
Was That Masked man
Anyway" are widely
acknowledged as primers for men seeking deeper
knowledge of creating awareness and understanding
of the masculine way. More information on Ken, his
work and/or subscription information to the weekly
"Spirit Coach" newsletter which deals with elements
of the human spirit in short commentary, check the
box at www.etropolis.com/coachken/
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/what.htm
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/speak.htm
or E-Mail
You are welcome to share any of Ken's columns with
anyone without fee from or to him but please credit
to the author. Ken can be reached at:
415.239.6929.
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