Art, Cathy Nilon

Gram had to do such things as keep track of the silverware and make sure of all the travel preparations when her employer traveled to one or the other of her several properties. She had the huge apartment in the posh area of the city, a house in one of the Hampton’s on Long Island, and a home in Asheville, North Carolina. Much of the early evening walk conversations centered around the comings and goings of the Iselin household. Gram was a “birder” and she always brought her small, opera binoculars on our evening walks so she could look at the birds close up if, indeed, any appeared. I recall how, intermittingly, we would see swarms and swarms of tiny gnats circling above and slightly ahead of us. It would take us about fifteen minutes and then we would come to the end of the paved road. We had reached the dirt road, referred to as, McDonald’s road. It wasn’t paved; however, the dirt and gravel were very tightly packed. As we walked, the sun was steadily moving lower in the western sky, although we still had at least an hour or two of daylight. Most of the birds had gone to bed. A slight breeze would give a welcome relief from the day’s stifling heat. We walked on and, after about ten minutes, came to the crest of a small hill. The wooded area gave way to beautifully mowed, slightly rolling fields. At this point, it was time to turn around and walk home before it would become dark at the end of the day. In the end, I married a career military officer and when my mom and dad divorced, they sold our childhood home and Gram, who lived next door, had to sell her sweet home, as well. She, at that point, had not much choice in the matter, and was forced to move in with my sister, Julie and her husband, Harry, who wasn’t kind to Gram. At the time, I was living in the Philippines and I would receive long letters from Gram telling me how miserable she was. I felt so sad because I was unable to help her. Ultimately my mother, her daughter, placed her in a long-term living facility, where she died. Years later, I had somehow annoyed my mother and she yelled at me, “I hate you, you are just like your grandmother!” I thought to myself, “what a compliment!”

Cathy Nilon

Lost Dream

John Glover

2

The most interesting project I worked at in an air force base was one thought up by the Chief of Operations to make a record-breaking flight east to west. The 94C had a potential ability to carry added fuel tanks which possibly fit it for the job. Although the A1C had mid-wing attach points and plumbing installed, no one had actually used the features because this was strictly an all-weather fighter and had no need for distance capability. All external tanks are mounted on bomb racks so they can be easily ejected in an emergency. It seemed practical to mount racks and trip tanks at mid-wing so our trusty crew went to work. The first test was to insure that the tank mounting was secure and did not appreciably alter the flight characteristics of the basic airplane. I took it to altitude, pulled 7 1/2 Gs to make sure all was secure and then came back to test the fuel feed, with tanks partly full; all was well; we loaded her up. This brought the gross weight up to a calculated 20,000 pounds. As far as we could determine, it had never flown at that weight, but with the tremendous power of the after burner, it seemed doable. (More on A.B. later.) I estimated, by extrapolating the existing performance charts, what lift-off speed and distance should be with the usual Georgia summer weather. As T/O approached those figures, I raised the nose wheel and let the airplane fly itself off. We were well above normal take off speed, but the aircraft felt solid and normally accelerated to climb speed. I made a very shallow 180 degree turn and hit 40,000 feet at completion of it, at which point the mid-tanks ran out. Holy Moly!! — I was at angel’s forty with a full normal fuel load. The euphoria soon wore off. With the added drag of the extra tanks and full fueled, the aircraft felt sluggish, but it seemed to me if this take off was on the coast and extra tanks were dropped in the Atlantic at the west bound timed crossing of the coast, and if the standard tip tanks could be dropped over the Gulf, that a record could easily be set. Problem — FAA would probably scream over a non-emergency tank drop even over the water.