“
By the Saturday after that, there were seven.”
“He never gave it a name.”
“We called it the Wings Club.”
“Every Saturday morning for thirty-five years, he opened Hangar 3 at six o’clock and taught kids how to read a gauge, rebuild a carburetor, and fold a wing flap.”
“He never charged a cent.”
“Sixty-one kids, Mrs. Pickering.”
“Nineteen of them became pilots.”
“Four of us fly for airlines.”
“One of us is standing in front of you in a uniform he couldn’t have afforded without your father.”
I turned slowly toward Dad.
“Saturdays,” I whispered.
“Every Saturday I can remember, you left at six in the morning, and you said you were going to the hangar.”
“I thought you just liked tinkering.”
“I did like tinkering,” Dad said quietly.
“Dad.”
“Somebody’s got to keep the engines running, sweetheart.”
It was the thing he’d always said.
And for forty years,
