Aviation articles by Garth Wallace

There were never any wide-eyed youngsters staring through the fence at my home airport. Sure, curious kids rode their bicycles to the field but we had Henry.
Henry was a retired machinist, a private pilot, a local flying club member and a self-appointed Pied Piper of the airport. The kindly, older man spent Saturdays and Sundays patrolling fence.
"Come, come," he'd say to youths watching the airplanes, "don't be shy. I will show you around."
The youngsters would follow him past the opening to the airside ramp. He'd point out the different kinds of aircraft and approach one that was not being used. They'd walk around it together and then climb in. Henry would talk about the controls, the instruments and the thrill of flying.

Henry had come to Canada from Europe as a young man seeking a better life. He found it. He landed a job and then discovered aviation. Employment put food on the table and allowed him to learn how to fly. The airport opened up a new world for him with new challenges, new skills, new friends and new horizons.
Retirement brought the time to pay back the hobby that had given him so much.

I'm sure Henry appeared a bit scary to youngsters at first. He walked slightly bent over. His clothes were old and worn. There was always grey stubble on his chin and a battered fedora on his head. He pointed with an old machinist's crooked finger and spoke with a foreign accent, but kids recognized the twinkle in his eyes and the kindness in his voice.

My own introduction to aviation came at an early age. My father was a private pilot. Every kid should be so lucky. I remember sitting in the flying club lounge waiting for my dad to finish the talking and coffee part of a visit to the airport. Henry would come in with a youngster or two in tow and show them around. I'd harbour resentment that these strangers were allowed to enter the inner sanctum of aviation. I knew better than to say anything. Henry was a well-established flying club institution. The adults recognized the value of his ambassadorship whether they liked the intrusions or not.

Henry budgeted for one 30-minute flight for himself every weekend. He'd take one lucky youngster with him. The instructors worried about his flying ability but he maintained the monthly currency, demonstrated the annual proficiency as required by the club and never had a big problem.
Our airport greeter didn't confine his parking lot prospecting to children. He targeted families in cars parked by the fence. "Come, come, I will show you around." And he did. Sometimes he'd talk the father into paying for a sightseeing flight for the family.
The older man's kindness to local aviation went further. Santa Claus always visited the flying club's Christmas party. The accent and the twinkle in the jolly man's eyes were unmistakable under the red costume and fake beard.
Young commercial pilots building experience toward careers were sometimes invited to join him on his half-hour flights. "We both fly but you log the time," he'd tell them. "The airlines won't be calling me."

It looked like the older man's flying days might be numbered when the club traded its taildraggers for Piper Cherokees in the 1960s. Henry's conversion was no problem for him but it gave the instructors fits. The elderly pilot continued to fly as he always had. He'd hold the control wheel all the way back and add full power at the beginning of the takeoff. The Cherokee would rear up. As it gathered speed, Henry would lower the nose and fly the airplane off the runway. His landings were always full stall. The chief instructor could not change Henry's ways but realized that his odd techniques were not unsafe.

I started instructing at that club in the early 1970s, the same time that Transport Canada installed a control tower on the field. Henry attended the information sessions on controlled airport traffic procedures and learned the associated radio calls. He had never been afraid of the microphone. He had always shouted position reports on the unicom frequency. He proudly yelled his version of the appropriate communications to the new control tower but it took months before we could get him to do it on the right frequency.

My chief instructor tried to pawn off Henry's annual proficiency check on me that year. I refused. Henry was well into his 80s. Everyone knew that the time must be near for him to hang up his wings. The CFI passed him for one more year and I moved on.

Henry eventually stopped flying as a pilot-in-command but he continued to patrol the airport fence, inviting newcomers, young and old, to the inner sanctum of aviation. He died in his 90s.

Henry was a memorable part of my introduction to flying but he was not unique. I have met many Henrys at airports across the country. Some were drawn into their ambassador roles by the Young Eagles Program, others were already doing what came naturally, being friendly. I salute them all.
I like to think that the Henrys who have passed on are in heaven, wearing fresh wings and greeting new arrivals. "Come, come, don't be shy. I will show you around."