(Author’s Note:  The bulk of the incident reported here was related by my late brother Thomas.  Any embellishment or inaccuracy would be his-he was a far better storyteller than I.)

The three main characters in our current conversation are my sainted mother, Rosemary Magdalene Fisher, Cole Palen confidant Paul Richards and a 1929 American Eagle.  Introductions are required.

Rosemary regarded the Aerodrome and all of its associated population and activities askance.  In her mind it kept her entirely male family far too preoccupied with the adolescent incomprehensible and, worst-case, threatened to leave her widowed and childless.  None-the-less, she would, on occasion, deign to put in an appearance just to keep up the fiction of tolerance.  She usually came to regret it.

Paul Richards and Cole were friends from the early days at Stormville.  An adventurer, bon vivant and raconteur, he enlisted with the RCAF when America rejected him as too young for WWII.  He liked to name his aircraft, including a J-2 Cub christened “Orville,” a Luscombe on floats, “Wilbur,” and an Aeronca Champ inevitably, “Veronica.”  Orville was based at “Richard’s International,” about 500 feet of steep downslope in the Richards backyard.  Paul and Orville admired to arrive at Aerodrome traffic pattern altitude and greet us with a 3 turn spin, which got things down to around a hundred feet-the perfect altitude to initiate a loop, the penultimate execution of which once occurred when Paul tossed out a loaf of bread from the inverted position.  Given the maneuverability of the little bear, Richards was fond of chasing us around the Aerodrome which could be damned annoying when trying to mow the runway on a hot day.  Paul was also a racer and once placed by pushing his car across the finish line, having coming up short on petrol.

With a pedigree that included Ed Portfield, Wiley Stearman and Giuseppe Bellanca, the American Eagle should have been more impressive.  A large, stodgy biplane, it was a contemporary of the WACO 9 and 10, flew about as well and did not survive the depression.  Originally designed for the war surplus Curtiss OX-5 V-8, it was later reconfigured for the Kinner K and B-5 radials, something of an improvement in reliability, which wasn’t saying much.  The Kinners weighed considerably less than the water-cooled OX’s and balance was achieved by extending the motor mount to point where the nickname “Ant Eater” became universal.  This particular Eagle flew in New England.  According to local legend the pilot was smitten by a certain young lady and wooed her by rolling the wheels across the corrugated tin roof of her father’s barn.  Given the Eagle’s overall reputation (the best one contemporary pilot report could come up with was “stable”) this may have been an exaggeration.  Another Palen devotee, Bob Love, remembered it from childhood, found and restored it to better than new condition.  He flew a test-hop, noted the challenging ground handling, replaced the wire wheels with balloon tires, added brakes and didn’t fly it a whole lot after that.  At some point, Richards acquired the Eagle and was determined that it should see more use.

And, that is where the story begins.

Against her better judgment, Rosemary (remember her), reluctantly agreed to spend an afternoon with most of her family at the Aerodrome.  This meant several hours on visual and aural high alert because, Lord knew, anything was likely to, and often did, happen.  An inveterate reader, she brought along one of the books that was her constant defense.  To read and be vigilant was no problem. Catholic school all the way though college had inculcated multi-tasking and she could read, knit a sweater and pray the Rosary while taking a walk.  This would serve her well.

Paul, deciding to exercise the Eagle, belted his spectacularly blonde teenage daughter, Susie, into the front cockpit and fired up the Kinner taxiing past an increasingly wary Rosemary who had ensconced herself, volume in hand, on a bench at the south end of the runway fence line where announcer’s tower was located.  My brother, Thomas, working away in front of the hangers, took note of the goings on- particularly the beauty in the front cockpit.

For the uninitiated, we pause for topography.  The south end of the Aerodrome runway terminates in a fairly steep incline up to a plateau of a couple of hundred feet.  For a northerly departure pilots taxi up the hill, run up, swing into the wind and barrel back down, shortening take off run by a fair amount.

Richards, following the standard procedure, went up the hill, faced the traffic pattern and determined that the Kinner was not likely to quit, at least for the moment.  He did, however forget that the Eagle was not the gentle Orville and swung around into the wind with panache, kicking opposite rudder to line up with the runway.  Two hundred and seventy-five pounds of clattering Kinner on a long moment arm had contrary ideas and the turn swung considerably wide.  With full throttle, full right rudder and what he could get of the right brake, Richards, the Eagle and daughter were aimed at the announcer’s tower and a frantic Rosemary. Unwilling to surrender, he hung in there figuring he was close to better aileron response which would save the day.  Rosemary having a strong sense of self-preservation and harboring no such illusions dropped her book and departed with a shriek alerting the Aerodrome and surrounding countryside that something was afoot.

It was a good thing, too.  Opinion remains divided as to whether Richards closed the throttle or whether he almost got airborne.  In either case he never got lined up with the runway and smote the announcer’s tower a shattering blow with propeller shards, two-by-fours, plywood and various Eagle parts showering the vicinity and Rosemary dodging the carnage.  The tower absorbed most of the impact and the Eagle shuddered to a wounded halt, impaled on the airshow fence and entangled in the steel cable Cole had wisely embedded there.

As the majority of the debris made it to the ground, Rosemary was still registering loud complaints, Richards sat in the rear cockpit, cursing and Susie in the front, gasping.  Thomas could tell from her tirade that Rosemary was safe and added insult to injury by ignoring his mother and rushing to the front cockpit to comfort the uninjured, but shaken, flaxen-haired maiden in distress. Being fleet of foot he beat out at least three other potential saviors.

Epilogue:  The announcer’s tower was beyond repair and a new one was built at a much better location near center field.  Richards thought it best to get the whole episode behind everyone and repaired the Eagle in record time-who could say if there was anything like an official report?  I think he may have flown it a bit before it went to the museum.  Thomas never did get anywhere with Susie who eventually became a flight attendant.  Rosemary retrieved her novel from the wreckage and insisted upon being taken home. There she stayed, nurturing a grudge she would take to the grave.