Our Father's Generation. F. M. Worden

      I was the first born to my Mom and Dad on a cattle ranch that my grandfather owned in the Southwest USA. The year was 1918. My Dad had just come home after the First World War was over. He had been a rifle instructor at Camp Poke, Louisiana. That’s where he met my mother, a French-American girl of nineteen and a beautiful woman she was. She was a joy and wonderful person to know in every way. Dad, so he said, swept her off her feet and she fell in love with him. They got married as soon as he was mustered out of the Army. He brought her home to the ranch. My father had been grandfather’s ranch foreman ever since, I loved them all as much as a boy can love his parents and Grandparents.

      I called Grandfather Popie. He was a big man - six feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds. He always stood ramrod straight, a shy but honest and dependable man, and as tough as nails. He homesteaded this ranch in the late 1800’s. He had come from Germany in his teen years. His Papa had always been a saloon keeper. Popie always wanted to be a cowboy and raise cattle, he said he fell in love with the West watching the cowboy silent movies and reading books about the West, he always had a big laugh saying that.

      When he heard homesteading was possible, he made his mind up to come west. He had fallen in love with his childhood sweetheart and married her just before coming west. She was a young German-Jewish girl of sixteen, who could hardly speak any English. Her family had come over to this country when she was just a baby. She had lived in a German community in Illinois all her life; she is a beauty even in her advanced age.

      My father was born on the ranch. He had never been more than a few miles away from the ranch until he joined the Army in 1916. I’ve always called Grandmother, Michelle, and my mother, Mom.

      My brother Frank was born a year after me and Al a few years later. Al was the baby of our family, he was just a little spoiled. Mothers, you know, tend to spoil the last born.

      I first became fascinated with air-o-planes when I was 10 or 11 years old. I was sitting on my cow horse during a roundup; I could see the airport down in the valley below. I watched one plane take off and circle above me in a lazy fashion in the cloudless blue sky. It was a two-winged plane and as I watched, it made all kinds of spins, loops and turns that looked to be fun to a kid of my age. I made my mind up right then and there to be an airplane pilot; I said to myself, “If a man can fly, so can I.”

      I knew my Uncle Bob was a flyer during the war. I also knew that he kept an airplane at that airport. Uncle Bob was my Mother’s brother. He was a pilot in the war; he married an English girl, my Aunt Helen. He was an architect in the city near our ranch. The man made lots on money and he liked us kids. He and Aunt Helen never had any of their own, he always called me “Tommy Boy.”

      I was enchanted just seeing airplanes, I started watching them every chance I got. On Saturdays and Sundays I’d take a horseback ride down to the airport to watch the planes come and go, I loved every minute of it, I was hooked.

      On one of these rides to the airport a few years later, a man came over to me and asked, “You like airplanes, boy? I see you here all the time. I bet you want to take a ride in one, huh?”

      “Yes, sir, I sure do.”

      He told me to tie my horse and come with him. I followed him around and he took me to see all the airplanes that were parked that day. He asked me the big question, “Would you like to go up?”

      “Yeah, I sure would!”

      He looked me in the eyes and asked, “You won’t be scared, will ya? I don’t want ya throwing up all over the plane.”

      “No, sir, “I said. “I can’t wait to see how it feels to be up there.”

      He told me his name was Jake Summers, he owned the airport and taught people to fly. He told me. “Come on. I’ll take ya up in my old Jenny.”

      I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever done. Jake looked back at me and saw I was really enjoying flying, he did a loop and I screamed my approval. I had both arms in the air yelling for more. Jake watched me, smiled and turned that old plane loose, I loved every minute of it.

      Back on the ground, as we climbed out of the Cockpits, he said smiling, “Boy, you’re going to make one hell-of-a pilot, when can we start your lessons?”

      “I’ve got no money.”

      “Well, boy, what do you own of any value?”

      “The only thing I own all myself is a steer I raised.”

      “Bring him down; I’ll trade for some flying time. I’ll bet you’ll be flying yourself in no time at all.”

      I thanked Jake and rode home, I was a happy young fifteen year old kid. It took several weeks to convince my folks to let me fly. I told them. “Uncle Bob has flown for years and no one said it was a bad thing to do.” Thank God for my Uncle Bob.

      Mother took the truck and went to town to see her brother. When she returned, she gave me permission to fly. That was a great day for me.

      On the next Saturday, I took my prize steer down to the airport and gave it to Jake. Guess what? My Uncle Bob was there that day. He told me if I could learn to fly, his Jenny was at my disposal any time I could afford to buy the gas. What a great deal that would be for me. He also told me I could work in his office all summer if I wanted to, I did.

      It was a good summer although I didn’t like the work. I had to work in his office, but I got to fly every weekend. On my sixteenth birthday I soloed, it was the greatest day in my life. I took that old Jenny as high as I figured it

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