Illustrated by Chris Gall
It was the summer of 1989, and the Midwest was sweating through an endless stretch of hot and humid days, cloudless but wrapped in a thick layer of haze. Weather forecasts were so boringly predictable that calling for a VFR briefing was pointless; the vis would come up to three miles by midmorning and anything beyond "hot and humid with no chance of precipitation" would have been front page news. Remember those good old, pre-9/11 days when the only place you saw a TFR was on an FAA written test?
I was coaching a friend named Bruce in the art of flying Cub '906 (the beloved 85 hp J-3 that I never should have sold and that Steven Koontz won't sell back to me). After shooting takeoffs and landings on the smooth, wide grass of Mad River Airport we were meandering the 60 miles home without much thought to the fine points of navigation. But I knew we were close to Clinton Field at Wilmington, and I was peering down through the haze when a runway suddenly materialized beneath us. More than just a runway ... a real live paved airport with lights and a taxiway, a ramp and a good-sized hangar. Not Clinton Field, but what ... a mirage? An aeronautical Brigadoon that appears out of the summer haze every 100 years?
The runway, obviously new, was only about as wide as a highway lane. Pretty good approaches except for a stand of trees on the north end. On final-well, of course we had to land-I saw the VASI that would provide a welcome glideslope over those trees at night. We landed south in the dead calm and taxied back to the hangar where a figure stood in front of the open door. He was a burly, bearded man and he was squinting in the hazy sun ... or was that squint a scowl? Here we go again. Last time I dropped into a private field in Cub '906 the owner threatened to call the FAA. I told him I couldn't help myself ... his strip was an attractive nuisance. Then I gave him the FSDO manager's (my boss') name and phone number. "Oh, hell, I should have known," he sputtered. "You're that Martha ... ."
Anyhow, I leaped out of the Cub, grinning and chattering about what a neat place this was, and what was it called, and wasn't it hot, and where were we anyhow? But it was obvious the Pollyanna performance wasn't going to work. This guy was a lot younger than I first thought and not bad looking if he'd quit frowning and get rid of that wad of tobacco in his cheek. I introduced myself and he grudgingly mumbled that his name was Dave and that this was his father, John Schweller's, private (as in very) airport. They "didn't have visitors." I was peering around him and edging toward the big hangar until I could make out what was inside. Wow! Like airplane heaven. An A36 Beech and an Aviat Husky flanked by S-1 and S-2 Pittses, each one gleaming like brand new. And the airplanes were surrounded by a world-class inventory of tools and equipment.
After a few more futile attempts at conversation with this Dave person we declared defeat, saddled up and pointed '906 toward home. Anyway, Bruce was useless when it came to small talk, much less sweet-talk. He was an engineer, with all that connotes, and owned a consulting firm that operated a Cheyenne II. I met him, in fact, when he applied for a 135 certificate and I was assigned to do his flight checks. Once he got over the "unsat" I gave him on the first try we became great friends. I suggested that, with his personality, he'd make more money if he stuck to hauling bodies instead of live people.
Before we left Lumberton, I'd noticed an FAA Repair Station number on the hangar and, yeah, the airworthiness guys in our office knew all about it. John Schweller seemed to be a pretty good guy, they said. Kind of a loner and maybe a little eccentric. A toolmaker and a really talented mechanic. He owned some kind of plant in Dayton but seemed to have plenty of spare time and plenty of money. Said he was a widower and had turned most of the business over to his two sons. Dave, the one I'd met, was also a pilot. "Lumberton Airport" had happened because Mr. Schweller was frustrated with airport politics at Greene County. So he pulled up stakes, "borrowed" an idle highway construction crew and built a hard-surfaced runway on property he owned in nearby Clinton County.
They'd also heard that there was a neighbor problem right off the bat. It looked like the airport might be shut down as quickly as it appeared. Mr. Schweller liked to play with one or both of his Pittses on Sunday mornings and the snarling noise didn't win him any friends at the neighboring Methodist church. Christian charity prevailed and the airport was saved when he modified his aerobatic practice schedule and the congregation suddenly found the resources to buy much needed new hymnals and build a handicap access ramp.
Fascinating ... an airport ... all those airplanes ... and a widower...
I was in the midst of plans for an ambitious helicopter seminar that fall at Sporty's and had to put Mr. Schweller and Lumberton on a back burner (still, fascinating ... all those airplanes ... and a widower) until I stopped by Don Fairbanks' helicopter school at Lunken. The only thing I know about helicopters is there are an incredible number of moving parts, so Don was a critical part of the planned event. That afternoon he had a visitor, a former helicopter student, a solid- looking man in his late fifties with an unexpectedly boyish smile and the brightest, twinkling eyes. His name was John Schweller. And we both were fascinated.
We talked airplanes and helicopters into the afternoon and then, just before I left, he invited me to Lumberton. "I'm there most afternoons," he said. "There's a little restaurant down the road just past that little white church. Great homemade pie. Especially the butterscotch."
Sure enough, the next Saturday I had a terrible craving for butterscotch pie. And he was right. The Route 68 Family Restaurant made the best "real" butterscotch pie on the planet ... still does. He proudly showed me around the hangar and the surrounding gently rolling farmland edged with woods and even a picturesque, gurgling creek. What a beautiful place and what a shame he didn't share it. Actually, he didn't seem put off by the idea of visitors, but when I mentioned it over at Waynesville, the word was, "You mean that rich guy with the new strip? Nah, he doesn't want visitors. Stays to himself. No, we haven't stopped in but, you know, the word gets around."
I decided I needed to fix that.
