Northwest Fly-in
From Matronics
by Austin Tinckler
I don't have an address for the Scapoose guys, so I would like to say here that I appreciate very much the invites that I have received to attend the Scapoose fly-in on June 16.
They must have gotten a "completions" list and invited guys like me. A special hand written and stamped etc. invite to like-minded RVers within striking distance.
If I go, I would have to drive since I sold my RV and used the Dinero to get me a good engine and another kit which should be ready in a year. I always felt guilty about it, but short of winning a lottery, I just could not build another RV without losing my "flyer." If I could, I would surely build a Rocket, since that would be the culmination of my "Walter Mitty" fantasy of roaring off into the blue, despite being a "golden ager," whatever the hell that is supposed to pigeon hole me at.
I find too, that I even lust after a throaty motorcycle when the weather turns good, and sport bikes appear in twos and threes on the road.
Sensibility being what it is though, even if I do see grey hairs ripping down the hiway on a chrome beauty, I would probably think that the 10 grand it would take for the bike would get me an engine or a good panel which I can fly all year 'round, where the bike is a short season ride where I live and a rather "kamikaze" risk to boot with the crazies we see on the road now.
The Scapoose fly-in is a candy store for any flying nut and RV lover — they had 85 show up last year. Can you imagine what it is like to fawn over luscious RVs all day and have a dinner at night on the grass with a steak and A1 sauce and the smell of new cut grass to ingest with a good drink?
Years ago, I took two kids to a fly-in where we saw airplanes all day, had hot-dogs and drinks and steak and cob corn at night, watched late flyers take a last spin around the patch when the sun plays gold and rich on the paint jobs and makes them photograph dark and dramatic. Lights come on and yawns prevail and the time to crawl in the tent prompts no dissent. Engines idle and go quiet and props blow the last wisps of grass by and we are zonked for the night, dreaming of flapjacks in the dewy morn.
I am partial to be sure of RVs at a fly-in, but remember that RVs were not always there for us to enjoy. Think of a polished Ryan ST. Anything that smells of airplane was as a narcotic to me and those like me who drifted all day, tired of carrying a camera bag, getting sun roasted and needing to find a place to pee, only to replace that with another cool drink and another row of airplanes and pilots to talk to. I even felt a tug of nostalgia when studying a mint Ercoupe, since I remembered flying one to Mexico when I was a kid — the only airplane someone would trust to me, a foreigner at that, when all others told me to get lost.
The man who trusted me and gave me memories that lasted over 50 years was killed in a B25 while fighting fires and now has a road at the airport named for him, but has still another memorial in the minds of those who were fortunate to meet him. A man who gave you a chance. Airfields and fly-ins are what keeps the dream alive for most of us — lots of this pleasure provided by volunteer flying nuts. The two kids are now working in aviation, their idea of "art" is a picture of an airplane on the walls of home, their idea of music is the sound of a radial and they must run out to see what it is. Perfume to them is the special smell of an airplane and the fuel and oil that somehow is different from cars.
Fly-ins are the food for the soul of a body captured by airplanes. And as was said once before about music — that if music be the food of love: Play On — well if fly-ins are the food of love for aviators, then please do Play On. Go to a fly-in.
