Making Some Flying Memories to Last a Lifetime

I should have known better. When my brother Steve and I cautiously entered her hospital room, Grandma Marge was not only awake but startlingly alert. She greeted us effusively, her wide eyes aglint with that mischievous spark I know so well. She returned our gentle hugs with surprising strength, then excitedly motioned toward a bedside guestbook filled with love from the grandkids and great-grandkids who had apparently been parading through her room for days. I got the sudden feeling that my grandmother was rather enjoying her supposed deathbed. I wrote some nice things then sat and took Grandma’s hand, preparing to make small talk. She had other ideas and got right down to business: “So, how’s that Stinson of yours? You know that my first flight was in a Stinson 108, right?”

Yes, Grandma, I know it well. I’ve heard the story many times. When my grandmother was a 14-year-old girl in central Minnesota, she lived next door to an apparently successful dentist who purchased a brand-spanking-new Stinson 108 in the first year of production, 1946. A public-spirited man, he proceeded to take all the neighborhood kids flying, including one particularly enraptured Marge Dellwo. She talked about it for the next eight decades. 

Grandma’s longtime fondness for Stinsons played no role in my decision to purchase a recently restored 1946 model, but once I did, I always meant to take her up in it. However, the plane and I live in Washington state, and I wanted to get some time on the newly overhauled engine before taking it too far afield. And then Grandma’s health took a turn for the worse. Now, it was almost certainly too late. 

And yet, I found myself assuring my bedridden grandmother that I was planning to fly the plane home this summer for Oshkosh—and if she was up for it, sure, I’d take her flying. She flashed her most charming smile and told me, rather formally, that she sincerely hoped she’d be around for it. I squeezed her hand, more than willing to grant a dying woman’s theoretical wish, and inwardly smiled at the faint possibility that I might actually have to make good on it. 

Naturally, she recovered. She’s a tough old bird, my grandma—a child of the Great Depression and World War II, mother to 10 children (of whom only seven survived to adulthood), and long-suffering wife to an alcoholic, sometimes abusive man, at a time when such things were simply borne in silence. I knew none of that growing up, of course. I only knew Grandma for her persnickety sense of humor, her love of adventure, her passion for history and travel, and her prowess with early computers—all traits I absorbed. And I knew that she loved to fly. I took her up several times in a rented Cessna 172 and my old Piper Pacer. Now, I was on the hook for one last flight in my Stinson 108. 

It didn’t actually happen this summer. The annual inspection ran long, then I had a pernicious oil leak to chase down, which along with a full work schedule meant that I missed Oshkosh. But at the end of September, I had time off for a sailing trip in Croatia, and my wife, Dawn, and I decided this would also be a good time to fly home. We got lucky with excellent weather and a healthy tailwind that pushed us along to the Upper Midwest in a day and a half. That left plenty of time to take family flying—but not Grandma Marge, who had just had surgery and was in no condition to fly. I stashed the plane at Princeton Municipal Airport (KPNM) in Minnesota and hoped Grandma would be up for it when we got back from Europe.

Ten days later, my parents had just picked us up from Minneapolis-Saint Paul International (KMSP) when Mom got the call that Grandma was back in the hospital, this time with a suspected heart attack. Once again we rushed to her side, where I wasn’t too surprised to find her awake, alert, and joking with all comers. She had apparently complained about a sore left arm, and her assisted living facility duly called 911. “I’m old. Of course, my arm hurts!” she scoffed. She hinted broadly at the presence of the nearby Stinson, but I held my tongue and made no promises.

Grandma was discharged shortly thereafter and spent the night at my parents’ place. She was her usual chipper self the next morning. I offered that we’d go to the airport to take a look at the airplane and, if she was feeling up to it, maybe we’d go flying. Nonplussed, Grandma Marge insisted that we also bring her best friend and neighbor, my paternal grandmother, Velva Weigel, 94 years old and mostly blind but still sharp as a tack. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar, I suppose. 

Of course, we all ended up going flying. In fact, Grandma Weigel went first, with Dad in the back seat. Somehow, this was her first flight in a small plane. She’d never expressed any interest, and it had never occurred to me to ask. And yet, she absolutely loved it. The wind had picked up considerably, and it was bumpy down low, and she liked that more than anything. Amazing. The hardest part was getting her in and out of the airplane, an endeavor for which my muscular brother Josiah proved an invaluable help.

And then it was Grandma Marge’s turn, this time with Josiah accompanying us. She was so incredibly excited—she turned into that 14-year-old girl again. In fact, she peppered me with questions and comments all through taxi, run-up, and onto the runway, until finally I had to interject, “I already radioed that we’re taking off, Grandma, we have to go now!” The bumps didn’t phase her either, and she immediately started spotting familiar places from a lifetime in central Minnesota. It struck me just how naturally comfortable Grandma Marge was in the air. She probably would have made a fine pilot, in another time and under different circumstances. 

We wandered farther than I’d planned. We flew over Grandma’s apartment in Big Lake, old haunts in Elk River, and her longtime hometown of Dayton. There’s the Catholic Church on the big hill, where my cousins and I built giant snow jumps for our sleds. There’s Grandma’s old clapboard house on the corner lot, with the leafy hedges where we played hide-and-seek. There’s the village fire hall that hosted family reunions and Grandpa’s Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He attended them religiously and never drank another drop. I knew him as a gruff but kindhearted man with a gravely smoker’s voice. Bud Dellwo died young, as did Michael Weigel. I never took either flying. 

Finally, we turned back to Princeton. Grandma Marge was all smiles as Josiah and I extracted her from her perch. But the day’s flying wasn’t done. My 11-year-old nephew Oaklyn, Josiah’s oldest, shyly inquired about the possibility of another flight. He’d been up two weeks prior, and in the Pacer years ago. He reads this magazine faithfully and asks about flying every time I see him. So, of course, we went up, with a short trip to Milaca’s quiet grass strip. I made the takeoffs and landings, but otherwise “Oakey” flew the whole time. It’s obvious how much he loves it, and he has a natural touch with this old ship. I suspect he may follow in my footsteps. 

Well into the afternoon, Dawn and I took our leave and pointed the Stinson’s beak westward for the long flight home. I pondered our visit, and my heart was very full. We took 19 family members spanning four generations flying in our old bird. I felt so privileged to take my grandmothers on what will probably be their last earthly flights, and my nephews and nieces on some of their first. I hope they enjoyed it as much as I did, and remember it as fondly. I hope they talk about it for the next eight decades. 

This column first appeared in the January Issue 954 of the FLYING print edition.