Biographical Notes reCharles A. (Chuck) StonePage 2 of 3 Pages, of Chapter 4,HOMECOMING |
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| As Nell and I began to seriously plan to get married, considering the all-too-recent tragedy, we decided to have a quiet wedding with a minister we knew from his previous service at our local Methodist Church. He was currently the pastor of a church in Minneapolis. We were married with little fanfare in the company of a few friends and family members. The glue our minister used in the ceremony must have been pretty good though. As I write this, on next October 7, 2001, we will have been married for 55 years. Nell had been working in the local Minnesota Power and Light office. After our marriage, she trained in her replacement, and became very much a part of our hotel/resort operation and my own life. Our business was truly seasonal. As winter set in, the salesmen were ever fewer in number. Our summer guests were enjoying the season somewhere else that enjoyed milder climates than our wintery snows and blows permitted. |
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Nellie Anderson becomes Nellie Stone |
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| When Christmas and New Years Eve came around we were almost empty, except for a few long-term residents. As we planned to greet the New Year, 1947, it only seemed logical to have a New Year’s party for all of our “homecoming” friends. That we did, and it was an experience that is always remembered when our friends of that era get together. Nell served a meal, featuring a roast piglet and all the trimmings, to as many people as could crowd into our large basement dining room. Friends continued to arrive as word of the party got around town and the joy continued at an ever-increasing rate on into the night. Anyone who was overcome with fatigue or other influences, had only to pick a bed and crawl in. It was a heartfelt celebration of separation and coming back together that would be hard to recreate. In the meantime, my parents had built an addition on what had been my grandfather’s house next door and moved in with my sister Pauline and her two children who were then living there. Nell and I remodeled their old bedroom, near the hotel entrance, into an office and registration area. Soon after that, we became acquainted with a fellow by the name of Bob Brown through mutual interests in aviation. Bob had been a P-38 pilot in the China/India parts of the conflict. He was looking for a nurturing place to locate his family and chose to become a part of our hotel/resort development process. He knew the rewards would be limited but the nature of the work involved suited him very well. The business continued to grow and evolve. He was a productive addition to our team. Along with all of this, Bob and I accepted an invitation to become more active in the Army Air Corps Reserve, a program that was being brought back to life. Our meeting place was at Bemidji, Minnesota, a 50 mile drive to the north of Park Rapids. We attended meetings, without any pay compensation, and on occasion were able to get in some flying time in some of their T-6 aircraft stationed down in the Twin Cities. There was a day when Bob and I flew two T-6s from Bemidji down to Park Rapids. That day I fulfilled a dream of long-standing by having Bob and I both come barrel-rolling down out of the sky and giving the Rainbow Inn a buzz job that must have shook the bats right out of the attic. I know it shook up a few little old ladies in town because when we buzzed the local airport, next, they had a complaint already filed. The airport manager took our tail numbers and dutifully called them in to the powers it be in Minneapolis. Colonel Don Wilhelm, the Reserve Commander in the Twin Cities, called me and asked what had taken place. (Don was a regular guest at our hotel who came up for the trout fishing.) I told him the truth and he said that if asked about it further to say we had been having a bit of engine trouble. End of that story, but I didn’t feel compelled to do it again. As one might expect, the Reserve Program began to run out of money as the resources were rechanneled to the National Guard. We would continue to drive up for meetings, but no more flying. Flying the Taylorcraft took an interesting turn, as well. Loyal Jones, my partner in airplane ownership, and I arranged to have a major overhaul that was due on the engine. I won’t bore you with the intricate details and local personalities that were involved in why it took so long to get that engine checked, serviced and put back together and then mounted back on the airframe. But, that finally done, the engine was given a test ground run and then a short flight test by the people involved. They stamped it ready to go. It was only coincidental that my Dad, who had never set foot in an airplane in his life, finally condescended to have his son fly him to a Forestry Director’s meeting over in the city of Grand Rapids, Minnesota a couple of days hence. I quickly agreed and proceeded to get the airplane ready for a test flight of my own. A friend, Bobby Thomas, asked if he could ride along. I said yes and we fired it up and taxied out for takeoff. I gave the engine a good ground check and, except for the engine sounding a bit tight, it seemed to be raring to go. As we broke ground there developed a slight tap, tap, tap sound in the engine. As we climbed through about 500 feet it became a TAP, TAP, TAP, SOUND! I made a left turn with plans to return to the airfield as quickly as possible. As I started another left turn the TAP, TAP, TAP, became CLANK, CRASH, BASH. The cockpit filled with smoke. I turned to Bobby and said “Well Bob, I have always wondered how I would behave in an emergency and now we will find out.” While making this statement I was turning back into the wind and saw a fenced-in oat field coming up fast. I was able to lift the airplane over the fence and then stall into the tall growth of oats, stopping very quickly. We jumped out and got away from the airplane, in case it was on fire. It just sat there and smoldered. I took a quarter out of my pocket and went up and opened the cowling, noting that there was smoke pouring from a major crack that covered the full height of the visible crankcase. We hiked back to the airport, made arrangements to borrow my Uncle Herb’s Jeep, took down the fence, and dragged the airplane back to the airport. We received a solemn promise that the engine would be inspected to see if their maintenance services were at fault. That airplane sat in the hangar, untouched, for weeks. Naturally my Dad chose to drive to Grand Rapids for his meeting and went to his grave without ever having both feet off the ground in an airplane. When my frustration level was reaching the boiling point, a small engine expert from Fargo, ND, stopped by the hotel over a weekend. I told him my troubles. He said “Let’s go out and have a look.” He grabbed his tools and out to the airport we went. In a matter of minutes he had that engine off and in the trunk of his car and was on his way to Fargo for a formal autopsy. The diagnosis was “Someone forgot to do a TO compliance and failed to drill an oil hole in one of the bearings.” One of the piston connecting rods had overheated, froze, snapped off and had gone rattling around in the crankcase, breaking things along the way. He gave us a good fix and remounted the engine on the aircraft. Our local experts were very chagrined that they had been outfoxed; but they had it coming. Not long after that, Loyal Jones, who was in the milk business, and I, both, decided that we had enough to do without owning an airplane. We sold it to a mutual friend, an ex-Navy fighter pilot, enroute to California to become a certified CAA aircraft controller. He bought the airplane and headed west. Loyal and I went back to work with one less distraction. |
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