My grandfather contributes much of his success to luck. I
personally feel that he is a bit modest. “Luck, really? I’m not so sure,” I
think to myself as I prop against the wooden arm rest of my grandfather’s coach.
I lean a little closer to him, pen and pad in hand. I am ready; ready for his
story. This will be a first for me. Throughout my life, my grandfather and I
have never been close. My love for him has never wavered, but my grandmother and
I were kindred spirits from the start. Her love for writing and ability to
speak publicly without the slightest fear captivated me as a young child, and
left strong impressions. On the other hand, my grandfather took a more modest
approach to life, often taking the back seat to my grandmother, which he never
seemed to mind. But, now, at the age of 92, my grandfather is alone. After 68
years of marriage to my grandmother, he is alone, and it is his time. Since the
months of my grandmother’s passing, I made a commitment to my grandfather; he
doesn’t know it, but I have. My commitment is to know him and love him. Part of
this commitment is telling his story.
My grandfather claims to have had three great passions
during his lifetime: flying, farming, and his marriage. He is the only person
that I know personally that knew his passions at a young age and held fast to
them, never wavering for a moment. He is also one of the few that made his
passions happen. My grandfather dreamed, but he also accomplished those dreams.
He claims that his life went full circle having been raised on a farm, where he
first learned to love animals, nature, and planting to following his next dream
of becoming an airline pilot, and finally finishing his career as a farmer
again.
The story that follows will begin with my Grandfather’s
early life. His time living on his grandparents’ farm in Missouri, the first
time he witnessed an airplane circling over his grandparents’ farm, and the “luck”
he claims that made his passion of flying a reality.
My grandfather, Edwin Lee Wyrick, was born on a sunny day of
October in the year 1920. His parents, Claude and Lillian Wyrick, newlyweds,
lived on a small farm in a little town east of Kansas City, Missouri. Young and
poor as most newly married couples during the 1920’s, Claude worked long days
and nights as a store manager for a local A&P grocery store. Lillian minded
the home as well as their new son, Edwin.
Those early years, although arduous for Claude and Lillian,
passed quickly for young Edwin. His memory now glosses over to another time; a
time that changed his life forever. At the age of four in 1924, Edwin’s father,
Claude got a job in Elma, Missouri. Lillian, now pregnant again, felt it would
be too difficult for Edwin to move with them. So, Edwin moved in with his
grandparents, Ed and Georgia Corley, who also had a young teenage daughter,
Helen that could look after him.
Edwin: “My grandfather was a kind man. I would say that he
looked a lot like Abraham Lincoln; tall with a gaunt sort of appearance, but he
was kind and never laid a hand on me. All he had to do was give me the eye and
I knew. Yes, I remember that one day I busted through the screen door he was
fixing. I was anxious to get outside I guess. Then I heard in a stern voice, “Ed.”
I looked back and saw his firm fixed gaze upon me. I knew I was in trouble. I
replied, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” I knew that I had done the wrong thing, but he
never laid a hand on me.”
During those early years, Edwin worked hard on the farm
helping his grandparents. Beginning at the age of four he milked cows every morning
and night, watched over the chickens, and collected the eggs. His grandparents
rented the property, so every bit of help mattered. Much of the money made was
sent to the property owners.
Edwin: “My grandparents worked about 160 acres of land,
which was part of a larger farm. I often thought that the owners of the farm
were rich because they had a brick house that stood two stories high. My
grandparents hired about ten to twelve workers who tilled and farmed the land.
One of my favorite workers was a young black man named, Lev. As all the white
laborers would sit at the table and eat their dinner, Lev would sit apart next
to the stove. I would go and sit next to him with my first grade primer, and
read. Like most young readers, I would read aloud to myself. Lev would watch
over me, and whisper words into my ear that I didn’t know. Unlike most black
people during that time, he could read. I always liked Lev.”
“As a young boy, it was my job to bring food out to the
workers. The ladies, including my grandmother, would cook a great big breakfast
in the morning. Then, later in the morning, around 10 or so, I would bring the workers
a snack. I carried a tray of sandwiches and coffee. The ladies would continue
cooking and at noon everyone would arrive for a big lunch, and then go back out
into the fields. At 3 in the afternoon came another snack of sandwiches and
coffee, and it would be my job to take it out to the workers. It was not a
problem. It was just what was expected.”
So, the years passed, Edwin went to school during the fall
and winter months, but was home again during harvest time. His parents, Claude
and Lillian, came to see him as often as they could, and it was during one of
those visits that a special event happened that sparked Edwin’s imagination and
created a passion like no other.
It was the summer of 1927; Edwin was now 7 years old. His
parents, grandparents, brother, and Aunt Helen were all home eating supper in
his grandparents’ home when they heard strange noises above the farmhouse.
Edwin: “We all heard this loud noise outside. My Aunt Helen
and I leaped to the nearest window. We could not believe our eyes. It looked
like an airplane, but I had never seen one before. Suddenly the entire family
raced out the front door to see it. Then we realized that it was landing on our
property! At the age of 7, I stood in awe. My mother, strong willed and gutsy,
decided to approach the plane. The pilot worn and weary from the landing exclaimed
his apologies by stating, “I’m sorry. I was trying to head to Marshall,
Missouri, but the lights on my airplane have not been installed. Since it’s
getting dark, I had to find a spot to land.” My mother told him that it was no
problem for him to stay the night, and he was welcomed to dinner. Well, the
pilot took her up on the kind offer, and ate dinner with us. He told us all kinds of stories about flight and
airplanes. I hung on his every word. The next morning, my mother gave the pilot
permission to take me for a spin. The airplane was an open cockpit. We soared
all around the town, and I remember how little everyone seemed down below, like
they weren’t even real. The air felt so good. My Aunt Helen and I were the only
ones to take flight that day, but it was something that I could not forget. It ignited
a dream: I wanted to fly.”
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
No comments:
Post a Comment