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On the other hand, I was up on Martha’s Vineyard in the summer of 1999-visiting an elderly friend of ours who, by an amazing coincidence, had been Charles Lindbergh’s sister-in-law (once married to Whom do the small planes benefit? Whom do they exhilarate? Whom do they divert? Whom do they enrage? I understand the feeling of freedom that amateur pilots enjoy. It might be all right if they were flying through a blizzard to deliver the serum that would save a little girl’s life.
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There are the flight romantics, and there are their victims down below-collateral damage of the pilots’ daydreams. Last year on Oregon’s Willamette River, a foundering small plane whacked a woman in a kayak. Sometimes an imp of the kamikaze goes to work: Miles to the north, a small training aircraft fell out of the sky and killed a woman while she mowed her lawn. A couple of years ago, an 87-year-old crashed his Cessna on takeoff from a local field but managed to walk away from it. Our friends from Great Barrington are aimless-and sometimes accident-prone. Both of those heroic boys were getting in shape to fight the Nazis. Ten years after that, poor John Gillespie Magee was killed during a training mission over Lincolnshire, in a collision with a Royal Air Force trainer. Louis-although years later he concluded that planes, on the whole, had become a blight.ĭenys Finch Hatton died when his Gypsy Moth went down in East Africa after takeoff in 1931. Charles Lindbergh felt similarly mystical about the Spirit of St. “Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth / And danced the skies with laughter-silvered wings,” the poem begins. The baroness (Meryl Streep) reaches back her hand for Denys (Robert Redford) to grasp-a subtle visual reference to Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” in the Sistine Chapel and also a reference to the last line of the sonnet “High Flight” by the 19-year-old Royal Canadian Air Force Spitfire pilot Takes the Baroness Blixen up in his new yellow biplane and soars over the primeval landscape of the Rift Valley. They haven’t had to do so yet, but who wants the suspense? When the Nazis’ buzz bombs flew at London, people below could hear their blatting engines-until they became silent, which was the signal that they had started to fall toward someone’s house.īut why not? There are flight romantics-including some who are old and fat now-who, when they climb into the plane and ascend, half-think of the scene in “Out of Africa” in which If anything goes wrong, they can land in the field. They teach their students to cut the engine above our house and then restart it. We also have a flat field across the road that is a likely site for an emergency landing, so flight instructors from the Great Barrington airport use our place as a classroom. We have a barn, and these old guys-I suppose with a reverence for the tradition-fly at it.
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Barnstorming was a big thing a century ago, inĮarly days as a pilot.