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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
March 9, 2014
Published as Family History in a
Gramma Letter dated December 9, 1997.
© 1997 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Soldiers & Their Son, 1951
© 1951 by Photographer Unknown
© 2014 by Bud Grossmann
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AN ILLUMINATING EXPERIENCE
Tuesday, December 9, 1997
Dear Gramma,
I wonder, what’s the penalty for plagiarism? Today I intend to steal a story from my dad. I can tell the tale in my father’s own words because I recorded him on tape when I visited Wisconsin last spring. After an evening with you at The Manor, Dad and I were heading back to the farm. Dad cautiously steered his Chevy truck along the dark country roads through fields and marshes thick with deer.
Dad mentioned he was thinking of getting an ultra-light airplane, so I asked him to talk about when he first began piloting small planes—almost fifty years ago. He was an Army master sergeant, contemplating a civilian career. “Your mother and I,” he began, “lived at Fort Lewis then”—near Tacoma, Washington. “I took up flying lessons on the GI Bill, so it didn’t cost me anything but my time.”
“I was flying an Aeronca, and I really enjoyed it. I soloed early and got to fly around and see things. I did some night flying—solo—and that was a lot of fun.
“One of the things that happened was when I was night flying. We had red and green running lights on the wing tips, but we didn’t have any landing lights to speak of—couldn’t see with them—so all we had was the lights on the edge of the runway to see, to come in on, and you had to judge from that. And so I remember this one time I came around for a landing, and, gee, some guy came out on the field right in front of me and pulled off!”
“He came out with what?” I asked. “He was a pedestrian?”
“No, a little plane,” Dad explained. “A little plane taking off. And so I veered off to the side of the runway and took off. Cussed him out, naturally, but he couldn’t hear because I didn’t have any communications at all.”
“And so I went around again and doggoned if somebody else didn’t do the same thing to me. And, you know, they’re supposed to watch and see these planes coming in and not do that.”
“Huh!” I said, sharing my father’s indignation.
He continued. “The third time I came around, it finally dawned on me: my shirt cuff had caught my light switch and I was totally in the dark.” Dad laughed merrily at the memory. “It was all my fault!” he said.
By then, Dad and I were were just about home, coming to the crest of the hill on Schliesmann Road. Far down the driveway of the farm was a yard light, nearly as dim as the stars in the inkiness that surrounded us. There was no sign of another car anywhere around. Even so, I heard the tick-tick-tick of Dad’s turn signal. The dashboard’s glow flickered upon my father’s face as he made the turn from the pavement, into the rutted drive. “You know,” Dad told me, “some good comes out of these things. I really ... for a long time ... I remembered that incident, and I always looked for my own stupidity first. I’m not sure it lasted long enough, but it’s one of those things that should last. A person should look for their own stupidity before they blame other people. I never told anybody and nobody ever complained. But to come in for a landing...”
I interrupted. “Maybe they never saw you.”
“Maybe not. Of course, you hit full throttle to go around again and come in, and so you make a little noise. But I remember that ... to this day.”
♦
Gramma, your son Gordon and your grandson Gordon, Jr., wish you all good things—today and always.
Love,
Buddy
Author’s Note:
Gordon E. Grossmann, Sr., is celebrating his 88th birthday today, March 9, 2014. He
no longer pilots airplanes, but he drives a late-model Toyota automobile, apparently with
undiminished competence. Grandma Grossmann died on March 9, 1999, at the age of 97.
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I would welcome your thoughts on this page (or any of my
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be sure to spell Grossmann with two n’s and
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Thanks! BUD GROSSMANN
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