May/June 2006

“They’re crazy!” shouted my father, bursting through the door and coming in for dinner. Mother, careworn and ever patient, calmly laid the bowls for supper. “Now, Jim,” she said practically, filling our bowls with warm soup. That was what she always said when Father got excited. “I mean it Mabel!” he said, lifting his arms into the air. “If those men think they can get away with making a machine that can fly, well, I just think they’re craz- . . .” “If the Good Lord had intended us to fly, we would have wings,” agreed Mother. “Supper’s ready.” *          *          * The next morning at breakfast, I gulped down my food. “Papa?” I asked, downing a spoonful of porridge. “Yes, son?” said my father, busy doing something else. “Papa,” I said, “tell me about the men who are making that flying machine.” Papa grumbled disapprovingly. “The fools. They’ve come here to Kitty Hawk to play with gliders and try to make the silly things fly without wind. Like birds. Ridiculous.” “What are their names, Papa?” “Wilbur and Orville Wright. A pair of daydreamers.” “Maybe they’ll be famous someday, Papa.” “Famous?” roared Father. “Famous? The whole business will amount to nothing! Nothing, I tell you!” Mama, clearing the table, mildly interjected, “Now, Jim. You said the same thing about the horseless carriage.” ‘Are you making the flying machine?” “And what became of it?” Father broke in, waving his hat. “An automobile, like Uncle Bill’s,” I said dreamily. “A cloud of smelly black smoke with a steering wheel, that’s what! Anyway, I am off to work. Good day!” He violently slammed the door. Mother gave me a reproachful glance. “He’s right, Ben,” she said. “Now you got him all excited. He’s never been the same since that time with Uncle Bill . . . Ah! What am I doing? Children, you get along and do your chores. Frannie, scrub the dishes. Carolyn, you can help with lunch. Ben . . .” I was out the door like a shot, racing to the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk. I wanted to see the men who were going to fly. My arms and legs pumped faster and faster. Perhaps they had figured out how to fly already I just had to get there in time. Finally, I reached the barren windswept wastes of Kitty Hawk. Off to one side was Kill Devil Hill, a mountain of sand towering above me. To the other were two tents, which I had never seen before. Faintly, I detected dark objects moving around inside the tents. I crept closer and closer, my bare feet soundless on the sand. The black objects left the tent and became men, carrying something large. What were they doing now? They were letting it go . . . the breeze caught it up . . . it was flying! Gliding, rather. I moved closer. And closer. Even closer. It was like some kind of magnetic attraction. I continued to gravitate toward the kite until I was standing next to the man flying it. Startled at finding myself there, I gasped and hopped back. The man looked down at me with a cheerful smile. He had a small, black mustache and was dressed quite neatly “Hello,” he said, “I’m Orville Wright.” My mouth went dry “Ben Thompson.” “This is Wilbur, my brother.” A thin man leaned out from behind the first Mr. Wright and smiled, doffing his cap. “Are you . . . ?” I started. “Are you the craz- . . . I mean . . . are you making the flying machine?” Orville nodded. “We’re trying. Still in the experimentation stage. Want a try?” He handed me the kite, gently steadying my hand. There was a fair breeze that day, blowing in from the ocean. “You want to make this fly?” I asked. Orville nodded. “We’ll have to find a way to make it fly without wind . . .” Throughout the next hour, I learned almost as much on the subject of flight as the brothers knew. Then, Amelia, my big sister, came and called me home to lunch. “You better hurry,” she said in her prim, superior way. I waved to Orville as I trotted down the road, trying to catch up with Amelia. She was daintily stepping along, avoiding muddy patches and stopping briefly at puddles as if she expected me to be Sir Walter Raleigh and sweep off some velvet cloak for her to walk on. “Ooh! What will Mama say when I tell her you were flying kites instead of doing your chores?” she said as I panted alongside her. “Amelia!” I pleaded. “Won’t you catch it!” she gloated. I pulled her hair. *          *          * “What’s wrong with Ben?” asked 1VIama that evening as I stood motionless with a broom in one hand. I awoke with a start from my reverie and started sweeping again. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind off the Wright brothers. One thing was certain: I was going back tomorrow. *          *          * I kept visiting the Wright brothers all summer, and soon took to calling them by their first names. They didn’t seem to mind that much. One night, after dinner, I ran down to Kitty Hawk to see them. Orville played his mandolin, and Wilbur, his harmonica. We spent the evening singing, laughing, and talking about the long journey that lay before us on the road to flight. I liked the way that Orville said us, not just himself and his brother. It felt nice to be appreciated and part of a group doing something important. Wilbur and Orville, although several years apart, made a great team. Yet there were so many differences between them. Wilbur, the elder of the two, was solemn and quiet. Orville took his job seriously, but he was merrier and more outgoing than his brother. Wilbur was also the frailer of the two. Although both brothers became my friends, I was more