It was late January 1962 and my sister Mary and I had been taking flying lessons for about a month, but I don’t think either of us had soloed yet. The Ercoupe — loaned to us by an incredibly generous friend — had sat forlornly in the weeds for some time, so there were issues: little ones like nests of assorted critters and big ones like a nosewheel tire beyond repair and a leaky wing tank. In this classic Ohio Valley winter, ice and snow alternated with rain and freezing rain and the skies were a monotonous gray overcast. Even getting N341 to the gas pump was a challenge; whenever things began to thaw the sod became a quagmire of mud. But, hey, life was good; “weather” or not, we were learning to fly.
Actually, I was grounded … sort of. My father was less than pleased that the straight A’s of my freshman year in college had fallen to mostly B’s, and even less pleased when he discovered why — I was taking flying lessons and “majoring” in airplanes. Anglo-Saxon literature wasn’t nearly as interesting as Stick and Rudder and learning the intricacies of an E-6B computer. When I got downtown on the city bus each morning I was supposed to transfer to the Green Line and Villa Madonna College in Covington, Kentucky. But I could also hop on an East End bus that ran out to Lunken Airport, and the school allowed unlimited class cuts after the first year. Before my parents left for a vacation in Mexico, Dad declared the airport off-limits, locked the family car in the garage, and left his ancient stick-shift station wagon in the driveway. Worse, he put a chain with a padlock through the propeller of the Ercoupe.
