A few words about the banner.....You'll probably recognize the engines in the banner photo as those on the wing of a Convair 880. It came from an old snapshot I took in about 1962 as a boy flying with my parents. Northeast flight 41, Philadelphia to Miami. The image came from a small square print that stood up to the many years fairly well, but the background of that snapshot was pretty blah, so I dug up a much more attractive skyscape from more recent years and superimposed the engines on it. The cobbled-together lettering was, of course, just placed on top of that.
That old Brownie camera was pretty primitive by more modern measures, but I was blessed to at least have something to shoot with.
"Ground and enroute delays along with time lost during hub transfers can reduce point-to-point times of Mach .8 jets to those attained by DC-3s half a century ago." - Len Morgan
mother's letter to her boys back home captures the essence of air
travel in 1954. For most, an airline trip at that time was
an event, anticipated for weeks or months before and remembered for
years after. I don't know these people; the letter came to be
quirky set of circumstances. These
lines capture the feeling of an adventure with words I could not
match. I've changed the last name to conceal the identity of
Read the letter
"There were almost as many ways to land a DC-3 as there were DC-3 captains. Most put it on tail low which gave the best shot at a squeaker. One who made consistently good landings preferred a faster approach; he touched down with the tail up where it was in flight. At remote out stations he was known to coordinate power, brakes, and elevators with such skill that he taxied to the gate with the tail high, then eased it to the ground. On departure, he advanced power against the brakes, raised the tail, and taxied out in flying position. Inevitably, these displays came to the attention of the front office, and that was that." - Len Morgan
These drawings show what a few of the best piston-driven airliners ever built looked like when seen through the eyes and hands of a seven-year-old. I reluctantly confess to being the culprit.