STAFF REPORT
The winners of the Buda Friends of the Library adult short story contest are:
First Place
“The White Silk Scarf” by Terry R. Arenz
Second Place
“Royal Keys” by Robin Woods Sumners
Third Place
“Traditions” by Mary Anne Howard
Following is the first-place story, “The White Silk Scarf” by Terry R. Arenz:
The White Silk Scarf
By Terry R. Arenz
It was one of those nice spring mid-mornings. Small groups of vertical cumulus clouds were nudged slowly across the sky by a lazy breeze, and the sun withheld just enough warmth to justify my old leather jacket and “good luck” white silk scarf. I had been at the local airfield for a couple of hours puttering around my Cessna, as was the Saturday custom since buying her. My wife, Tina, was most understanding — at least that was my impression — of these Saturday rites.
“Oh well,” she had sighed. “At least I know where you are and the lady you’re with has wings and a propeller.”
After puttering, I would complete the ritual by flying a few laps around the pattern in an effort to maintain some semblance of proficiency.
I was digging some lint and miscellaneous crud out of the bottom curves of some gauges with some Q-Tips, when a movement caught my eye at the passenger door. I looked and smiled back at a thin, elderly, be–speckled gentleman wearing a tan sports coat, wrinkled dark blue pin striped pants, a well worn gray fedora, and a green, red, and blue plaid bow tie attached to a mint green shirt collar. I leaned over, opened the door, and invited him to lean in.
“James C. Fisher here,” he announced, “rhymes with mister.” He held out his hand.
“Jim Payne,” I replied with a smile. His boney hand camouflaged a surprisingly firm handshake.
“Not imposin’ on ya’ am I?” His smile was tired but honest.
“Not at all, “I replied. ”I appreciate the company.” I meant that.
It didn’t take long to discover he was an aviator too, or more accurately, had been. He hadn’t flown for “too many years to count” because of medical reasons brought on by a long ago aircraft accident compounded by age. It was apparent he was truly one of the old timers as the altimeter, ball and needle, and compass seemed to be the only instruments he recognized. As I answered his questions, he would sigh softly, rub the white whisker stubble on his chin, and slowly shake his head. Then it hit me: why not take him up for a ride?
The company would be nice; I had an extra headset, and even though he appeared to be well in his 80’s, he didn’t look as if he’d pick my airplane to check out of this life into the next. As far as I was concerned, whatever the medical reasons were they were FAA’s way of saying he couldn’t fly as Pilot in Command. Being a passenger with me posed to problem that I could see. Later events would prove my short sightedness. The transformation from tired old man to “copilot” was amazing. Preflight was a constant stream of his questions, comments, and observations. I couldn’t help but notice, though, the loving touches he gave my baby. The tricycle landing gear in particular amused him.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Payne, but an airplane just isn’t an airplane without a tail skid just like a pilot isn’t a pilot without a leather jacket, goggles, and a white silk scarf,” he chuckled. I nodded and grinned my agreement. My jacket and scarf seemed to glow. The old boy was OK in my book. He went on to tell me about a long ago forced landing when he hooked a fully loaded clothesline with a tail skid, and how, through the escapade, he had met his wife of 55 years…”God rest her soul.” I could only imagine other stories he could tell about the “tail skid days.” Preflight inspection completed, I buckled him in and told him to familiarize himself with the instruments and flight controls while I checked on a few things in the Fixed Base Operations (FBO) office. He was humming and poking as I left. Inside the FBO, I asked T.L. the operations secretary, if she knew a Mr. James C. Fisher. She followed my point and shook her head. “No, he doesn’t look familiar to me, but if anyone knows him it would be our mechanic, Steve.” She punched the intercom and paged him. He arrived as I was filling out a local flight plan. Wiping his hands on the eternal grease rag he carried, he wasn’t able to identify Mr. Fisher either. I thanked him for his time and said I would need my tanks topped of when I got back. He nodded and grinned OK.
“Oh, T.L?” I asked. “If Tina calls, please tell her that I’m in the practice area with Mr. Fisher, and will be back in the pattern for some touch and goes in an hour or so, OK?”
“Will do ‘er,” she replied.
After giving me the current altimeter setting and the latest Flight Service weather, she wished me a safe flight and confirmed the availability of the fuel truck with Steve over the intercom.
I walked out to my plane mentally planning the flight: A few “S” turns down a road, some turns around a point, followed by two or three greaser (no tire squeak) landings should do just fine.
Inside the airplane, Mr. Fisher was Mr. Chatter. I had to mentally tune him out a couple of times while I went through the prestart checklist. That completed, I helped him with his headset and put mine on. After engine start, we taxied out to the run-up area and I put the engine through its pre-takeoff paces. Everything checked out OK. My baby seemed anxious to show her stuff. In a way, so was I.
With no observed traffic on final approach, a ”taking the active” Unicom radio call put us looking down the familiar asphalt runway. With a light breeze teasing the weather-worn wind sock and coxing the early wild flowers along the runway’s edge into nodding their takeoff approval, I adjusted the propeller and mixture controls and the trim for takeoff, called “heels on the floor” and steadily inched the throttle to the firewall. Even with the headset on I could hear the engine increase its defiant throaty roar to the forces of drag and gravity as it pulled us faster down the runway. Holding the throttle knob to the stop, I eased back on the control wheel somewhat as we lifted off around 65 mph indicated airspeed with just a touch of torque countering right rudder. I glanced at Mr. Fisher and noticed a tear slowly leak down his cheek from my side of his glasses. He turned his head away and quickly flicked the tear away with the side of his thumb. I pulled my attention back to flying and at 1000 feet above ground level (AGL) banked left into the crosswind leg reducing the throttle somewhat, then leveled off after another left turn to the downwind leg. Halfway down the leg, our Unicom call and a right turn headed us out of the pattern and toward the local practice area. I added power, adjusted the prop and mixture controls and re-trimmed for a gradual climb to 2500 feet AGL.
All this time, Mr. Fisher sat looking out the passenger window occasionally brushing his cheek with his thumb. Reaching 2500 feet, I leveled off and reset the prop, mixture, and trim tab for level flight. As I waited for my baby to find her cruising niche, I touched Mr. Fisher’s arm. He looked at me in question.
“Everything OK?” I asked. He smiled, nodded and then as what seemed like an afterthought, gave me the “thumbs up” sign before turning back to the window.
My baby found her cruising niche, and I made a few minor corrections with the flight and engine controls. The air was silken smooth, and the visibility was nothing less than severe clear. Below us Mother Earth’s crisp spring colors – new greens, freshly plowed browns – seemed to shimmer with vitality and new life as they passed beneath us. Livestock in the fields had their noses glued to the light green carpet while their little ones played not too far from Mom. Suddenly, everything went white and baby bounced a little. I cursed myself inwardly for forgetting my Visual Flight rules (VFR) and basic pilot responsibilities especially where clouds were concerned. Regained sunshine found us in a field of vertical cumulus which had arranged themselves to allow us to follow their valleys and canyon walls, should we choose to, well within VFR clearance requirements. A murmur from Mr. Fisher returned my attention to the cockpit.
“Yes?” I asked
“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,” he replied. “I had forgotten how beautiful God’s earth and flying really are.”
I thought a moment then threw my mental flight plan away. “Would you like to fly her?” I asked.
His surprise was genuine. “Why, uh, y-yes” he stammered. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Just think the control wheel as a joy stick with a steering wheel on top. Turn the wheel to bank, push to dive, pull to climb. The rudders still operate the tail direction left or right.”
He carefully placed his feet on the rudder pedals and gently wrapped his fingers around the control wheel. When I felt his control pressures, I said, “You have the aircraft, sir” and moved my feet off the pedals and folded my hands in my lap. Baby didn’t do anything right away, but in a few moments she began to follow some feathery canyons. Then she soared through some huge cotton candy caves, eventually circling some slow growing ice cream cones. Her movements were so smooth I had to practically stare at the controls to see them move. I was amazed at this man’s touch. I’ve heard of people who have THAT touch, and I’ve been vain enough at times to convince myself I am one of them. Humph. Not like this. If ever there has been a reverence in flying, this was it. All I could do was keep a lookout for other aircraft, scan the instrument panel from time to time, and chew on a big piece of humble pie while letting an old pilot relive his lost hours.
I was reestablishing our bearings when T.L.’s voice came over the radio calling our tail number. I keyed the transmit button on my control wheel.
“Roger, Avon Unicom. Niner Two Sierra. Go ahead.”
“Niner Two Sierra, be advised you have visitors waiting for you. There is no, repeat no emergency, but you might consider returning at this time.”
That’s odd, I thought. “Ah, Avon Unicom. Anyone I know?”
“Negative, Niner Two Sierra.”
“Roger. Niner Two Sierra returning at this time.” Well, whatever it was, or whoever they were was important enough for T.L. to want me back. I pointed Mr. Fisher’s attention to the direction we needed to go. He nodded and said, “Time to go back?”
“Yes, but go ahead and keep flying. You’re doing great.”
He hesitated a moment then said, “No…No thank you. I’m pretty blushed. You go ahead.”
“OK. I have the aircraft, sir.”
He nodded and released the controls. A glance at the altimeter showed we hadn’t gained or lost any altitude whatsoever during the past several minutes of cloud flying. I didn’t feel so hot anymore.
As we neared the airfield, I saw a blue station wagon parked by the FBO with three people standing in front of it. Flying closer I recognized T.L’s red jacket and I saw the other two were a man and a woman. I made my Unicom radio call, entered the pattern, and went through the pre-landing checklist. As I turned final, I detected a definite change in Mr. Fisher — sort of a regression to the tired old man I had first met. And for reasons I cannot fully explain, when we were at 100 feet AGL, I added full power and announced a “Go Around” over the Unicom. When altitude was established and airspeed on the rise, I slowly raised the flaps and re-trimmed the pressures off the controls. I held baby at 150 AGL and full throttle all the way down the runway. When the runway’s end disappeared under the nose, I pulled up into a tummy tickling one G modified chandelle, reducing power while leveling off at 1000 feet AGL on the downwind leg. Mr. Fisher let out a “YA HOO!” and started to laugh like a young kid, slapping his knees with him palms.
“Son, “ he laughed, “That was just like to old times! Just like the old times! YA-HOO!”
As we taxied to my tie down spot by the FBO, he thanked me profusely in-between my apologies for the ballooned flare and a couple of “small” bounces (where were the good landings when you needed them?). The trio in front of the station wagon watched us as we taxied in.
I turned into my spot, braked to a stop, and went through the post-flight checklist. Engine off and ignition key on the dashboard, I removed my headset, turned to Mr. Fisher and said, ”Well, Mr. Copilot, I sure enjoyed it. Thank you for coming along.” The trio was almost on us.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Payne,” he answered as I helped him remove his headset and unbuckled his seatbelt. “It is I who should be thanking you.” He offered his hand.
On an impulse I took off my white silk scarf and put it in his extended hand. Why? I don’t know. It just seemed the thing to do. “As a memento, ” I said.
Taking the scarf with glistening eyes, he held my hand and said, “You have made a tired old man happier than you’ll ever know. Thank you, Mr. Payne. May God bless you.” He carefully tucked the scarf into the inside pocket of his sport coat.
The trio arrived. The woman was not smiling. I reached over Mr. Fisher’s lap and opened the door. The woman, I’d say in her early 50’s, immediately leaned in and said in a not–too-pleasant voice: “Dad, for the love of God! Are you OK? We were worried sick! How do you feel? Here. Let me help you out. “ Henry?” She shot over her shoulder, “help me with him. Oh, Dad. Why do you scare us like that?” Mr. Fisher mumbled something I could not understand but let himself be helped out of the airplane and guided to the station wagon.
Then came my turn. “And you, Mr. Payne is it?” I nodded. “Just who do you think you are, and just what do you think you’re doing?” She was hot.
“Uh, ma’am,” I said. “Just a minute. Let me get out of this airplane, then we can have some coffee in the FBO. I’m pretty sure we can straighten all this out and…”
Fire-in-The –Eyes shook her head. “I hope for your sake,” she interrupted, “nothing has happened to Dad.” She glared at me then turned on her heel, bumped her head on the retracted wing flap and walked toward the station wagon rubbing her head and muttering. Henry had helped Mr. Fisher into the back seat and was standing at the passenger side holding the door open. I had the fleeting thought to offer to buy him a beer. He sure looked like he could use one.
Damn! I thought as I climbed out. How could something so nice turn into such a pile of…I almost bumped into T.L. who was leaning against the wind strut. I had forgotten about her.
“Come to my office, you naughty man,” she smiled. “I think I can explain most of it.”
“I sure hope so,” I grumbled. “It isn’t every day I get threatened with a law suit for being a nice guy. I’ll be in as soon as I tie her down and fueled up.”
I watched the station wagon drive off. The woman had turned in her seat and was giving my ex-copilot what for. As I finished tying my plane down, Steve drove up with the fuel truck to top off the tanks. Watching him do the fueling, I hoped the “medical reasons” Mr. Fisher had mentioned wouldn’t come back to haunt me.
Three weeks went by with no word from the woman, a lawyer, or anyone for that matter. The incident had put a pall over my flying and I “found” other things to do in place of the Saturday ritual. One evening while I was reading the local paper, I ran across Mr. Fisher’s picture in the obituary column. It had been taken several years previously. The write-up wasn’t very long and it didn’t say anything different than what T.L. had told me: He lived the past few years in the retirement home which I recalled was about a mile from the airfield. He was survived by one daughter, three grandchildren and one great-grandchild. A wife, two sisters and three brothers had predeceased him. He had told one of his retirement friends where he was going and what he was going to do. The obituary also stated he was a Mason, a member of a Baptist Church, and listed the funeral home and the next day’s place and time of the burial service.
Not wanting to intrude, or more realistically, to provoke Mrs. Ellen Wallis any further, but still wanting to pay my respects, I called the funeral home. Yes, Mr. Fisher’s remains were available for viewing, and yes, we could view them if we got there before eight that evening.
At seven thirty, Tina and I walked into the small viewing room where Mr. Fisher’s body lay.
I signed the guest book rather reluctantly, but felt good for having done so. We neared the open, flower draped gunmetal gray casket, Tina put her hand on my arm and whispered my name.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I see them, too.” Neatly arranged inside and against the backside of the casket’s lid must have been twenty-five or thirty miniature wooden model airplanes-the largest not more than the length of my thumb. Close examination proved they were not works of art by any means, but they had been whittled with love and care. A lump formed in my throat when I saw the blue and white Cessna 206 with a small “92S” inked on the fuselage.
His body was dressed in a slightly too large dark blue suit and a yellow knit tie. The tie clip was a small biplane in level flight. I silently bid my co-pilot good bye and, nodding to Tina, turned to leave. Ellen Wallis was standing at the guest register looking at us. As we approached her, I smiled and said, “Good evening, ma’am. Please accept our sincerest sympathies. I hope we are not intruding. This is my wife, Tina, and I am Jim Payne. I, uh, gave Mr. Fisher the airplane ride a couple of weeks ago and, and, um….”
“Yes, I remember you, Mr. Payne,” she began, “and I am so ashamed of myself for being so rude and short with you that I, well, I am truly sorry for my actions. I started to call you several times, but well, I guess I felt so guilty I just couldn’t do it.” She held out her hand, “Please accept my deepest apology.”
I took her offered hand and assured her everything was OK and there were no ill feelings as I figured the outburst was nothing more than concern turned to relief turned to anger — like when your teenager comes in late after you’ve been hearing sirens all night.
She thanked me for being understanding then took a white silk scarf out of her pocket and held it out to me. “I believe this is yours. I don’t know how Dad got it, but I apologize for his taking it. During the past several months he took things, uh, without meaning anything you understand. His memory seemed to fade, and, well……” she paused.
“You don’t have to explain, Mrs. Wallis,” I said.
“He would not part with that scarf for a moment, “she continued, “and wore it where ever he went. Taking it from him was impossible. I was planning to drop it off at the airport after the funeral.”
“That was very kind of you, “ I said. “But, you see, I gave him that scarf as a memento of our flight. He didn’t take it.”
“Oh.” A look of relief crossed her face.’ Well. That makes me feel much better.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “My goodness, I must be going. It has been nice to have met you both and clear up some issues, but please excuse me. I have so many things to do.”
“Before you leave, Mrs. Wallis, please. There is something that has been bothering me since I learned of your father’s passing.”
“Yes?”
“ I did not know about his heart condition until after we landed, uh, and, I sincerely hope the flight didn’t have anything to do with his….his…passing.” I was not comfortable. Tina gave my arm a soft “I’m on your side” squeeze.
“Oh, heavens no, Mr. Payne,” she replied. “In fact, the next day Dad’s doctor wondered what had happened that gave him back some of the lost energy. When I told him what had happened, he said the flight was far better than my medicine he could ever prescribe. Oh, no. Don’t you worry. The flight had nothing to do with Dad’s passing. On the contrary, he left us a happier man because of it. Now I really must be going. Thank you both for coming.”
We nodded our understanding, returned her smile, and watched her leave. I looked at the scarf in my hands, then at Tina. She read my thoughts, nodded, patted my arm and said, “That would be a nice gesture.”
Even though the casket was presently open for viewing, it would be closed and sealed for the services tomorrow. At my request, the funeral director later placed the scarf around Mr. Fisher’s neck just prior to the casket’s sealing. A real pilot should not be without his white silk scarf.
Ignition is off and the tires are chocked.
