Of course in CPT I first had to be introduced to all of the rules, regulations and strict procedures before each takeoff with our instructor. The first plane was a small single-engine high wing Cessna with space only for two of us, instructor and student. Each of us had duplicate controls.

     Until then I hadn't even considered the aerodynamics of why flight is possible and I had to learn about how a propeller propels, how controls ( like rudder, ailerons, elevators, flaps) control and how the airflow over and under wings creates lift without which my plane could not be airborne. I had to learn to be gentle on the stick -- "Easy does it, Lee!" -- and discover that the airplane would almost fly itself after we had "trimmed" or equalized the surfaces that cause the machine to fly straight and level or bank, turn, climb or descend.

     In the air, I discovered, things are not always as they seem to groundlings. One can think he is flying level but the plane might be losing altitude or gaining it. There is no easy reference to indicate speed. At the beginning, unless passing a cloud, it felt like we were just sitting there. So, we learned we had better keep an eye on the altimeter that registered how high or low we were, on the needle which had a little bubble to indicate left-right skids and pressures, on the airspeed indicator -- one of the most critical of all the instruments on the panel in front of the pilots.

     Airspeed was a new concept to me. A headwind, tailwind or crosswind would make a big difference. Airspeed was not ground speed. A tailwind would get you to your destination sooner and a headwind later. Forget about your automobile speedometer. I learned that if I wanted to fly from A to B and there was a strong wind from left or right, I would have to point the nose of the plane, not straight ahead but cheat a little and point it instead slightly into the side the wind was coming from. For example if heading east, one would expect to follow a compass heading of 90 degrees but with a wind of 15 knots from the south one might have to compensate by keeping the plane's direction at a compass heading of perhaps 95 degrees or more.

     I quickly learned that loss of airspeed could cause the plane to stall and perhaps spin out of control and if some beginners crashed it might well be because they let the plane's airspeed drop below stalling speed, particularly on takeoff or landing. How often we heard the instructor's shibboleth: "Keep your airspeed!"

     Finally came the day when the instructor got out of the cockpit and with an encouraging smile told me, "It's all yours. You're going to solo!"

     So I gulped and prayed and tried to remember everything I had been taught. This was a prop plane so I had to check the magnetos. Then a quick check of the cockpit and a visual check of the plane and the runway and -- full throttle! I had learned from the instructor that I couldn't pull the plane into the air. I just had to let it gently lift off when it was up to speed. Then when it was fully airborne, I could pull back the throttle and get into a climbing mode.

     Then, maybe I would have a moment or two minute to look around and realize that for the first time I was aloft, alone. Solo. Strange, there was no fear. Just a kind of wonder and exhilaration. A momentary ecstasy almost. But no time for musing. Check the airspeed, the altitude, the horizon level, the coordination to be sure that in a tight turn it needed more engine power. But no sudden surge, please. Just ease the throttle forward and know that when resuming the straight and level again I should just ease back on the power to avoid climbing.

     Back on terra firma between flights I would muse on my new persona as an aviator. It seemed so out of character for me. I had never seen myself as a daredevil. If anything, I was by nature cautious and conservative in any derring-do. Gradually as I continued flight training in open cockpit bi-planes such as the Waco or Stearman, somewhat larger and heavier, all of my preconceptions of the romance of flying were replaced by what it was really all about -- skill, judgment, responsibility, and coordination of instrumentation with intuition.

     I came to understand what the old-time barnstorming pilots called "flying by the seat of your pants". Gravity and centrifugal force, especially in a turn, could make one feel heavier in the seat. It took me several years after flying in the Navy to not react to all of the gravity forces I sensed after World War II when riding as a passenger aboard a commercial airliner.

     It helped me when an instructor counseled me once when I had confessed that I was worried because I didn't understand adequately the technical and mechanical operation of the aircraft and the power plant. "Flying is not a mechanical process," he told me. "It's an art!"

     Hey, I could deal with that. My music and speech and writing gifts had earlier spelled out for me the regimen of creative accomplishment in the arts. Later in my Navy flying in World War II over Pacific waters I would often sing -- at least silently to myself. But it was just background music. It was with me as a symbol of placing art in the background to the real work of aviation. That work required high professionalism, sophisticated in comparison with small private planes of that day yet far from today's state-of-the art computerized gadgets. But then, for our four-engine patrol bombing seaplanes, it still called for an alert consciousness -- constantly aware of speed, altitude, heading, engine revolutions-per-minute (RPMs), radio signals, radar, LORAN (long-range-navigation) -- all the while scanning the entire horizon from left to right for friendly or enemy ships or aircraft and always being conscious of the weather -- clouds and whitecaps on the water to tell wind speed and direction.

     Once our crew had to fly right into the eye of a typhoon to track its course. I had come a long way from my Cedar Rapids flight kindergarten as a prelude to primary flight school.

     I had my wings. But I never became a hot-shot pilot. I just did the job I had been trained to do, never feeling that I was born to fly. And when that job was over with the peace that came September 1, 1945 and I was released, I turned my back on the cockpit of an airplane, never again to know the heady ecstasy of the freedom I sensed on that first day I took off alone --solo.