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Airport Memories

What do you get when you combine a brand new 1969 Volkswagen Fastback with a Cessna 150 aircraft (vintage unknown)?

Years ago, when the Earth and I were much younger than we are now, I used to work at Bell Labs in Whippany, commuting back and forth from a rented room in my department head’s E. Hanover home. I had moved – temporarily, I thought -- to East Hanover from Manhattan for what I believed would be only a short duration contract of perhaps six months. As we all know, ‘things’ rarely turn out as planned, and that is why – a year later – I was still at Bell Labs, living in New Jersey with an apartment of my own, a brand new Mustang, and a really neat girlfriend [not necessarily in that order of importance]. I was also taking flying lessons at “the old East Hanover Airport.”

It was my girlfriend, Sylvia, who had put me on to the idea of learning to fly. I am certain that some of our friends may have given thought to the idea that, if Sylvia played her cards right, she might soon be in line for a new boyfriend because I was a lousy flight student and, if permitted to solo, would probably have become a permanent feature of the terrain somewhere between Whippany and East Hanover. Not wishing to appear cowardly in Sylvia’s presence however – most guys will know what I’m talking about – I persevered and continued, each Saturday morning, to go on risking the lives of both myself and my instructor. It never occurred to me that I might be risking Sylvia’s life and limb as well.

Often, Sylvia would drive out to the airport to watch my landings and takeoffs, and to snap a few ‘action’ photos. Her green Volkswagen Fastback, with Sylvia standing alongside of it, could usually be seen from the cockpit, sitting at the end of the runway, as I tried, in a cold sweat, to land without ‘pranging the kite.’ On one morning my instructor informed me that we would be practicing landings and takeoffs in ‘round-robin’ style; that is, we would takeoff, climb out, turn 180 degrees until we were parallel with the runway again, get back into the traffic pattern – there was never any traffic – and land. Without coming to a stop, we would then repeat this performance, multiple times, until my hour of instruction was, thankfully, over.

Now I have to tell you something about the Cessna 150 and, in fact, about all carburetor equipped aircraft engines; There is a little something called ‘carburetor heat.’ This appears to the novice pilot as a little knob on the dashboard which is labeled, not surprisingly, as ‘carburetor heat’ but, more than that, it refers to a small electrically powered heater which resides inside the carburetor itself and is controlled by that little knob. When the heater is turned on, the air and fuel stream are heated slightly on the way to the engine in order to prevent freezing. In addition to preventing freezing, however, this extra heat also lowers the density of the fuel/air mixture and, incidentally, the available engine power. That is why you do not want carburetor heat to be switched on when you are trying to get the aircraft off the ground. Because most aircraft like to stay on the ground and, if you’re trying to get one into the air you will need all the power that you can get in order to accomplish this. On the other hand, when you are attempting to land a Cessna 150 you will find that it wants to come down anyway and so you really do not need, or want, all that power but you really don’t want the fuel/air mixture to freeze and stall the throttled back engine as this could prove to be a little more than just embarrassing. That is when you need to turn carburetor heat on. So the drill for ‘round robin’ is quite easy to understand: When you’re landing you want carburetor heat to be on, and when you are attempting to leave the ground you want the darned thing off. Simple! Right? Now what did I say? Exactly!

My first two or three round robins went off pretty well and I was, in fact, beginning to feel a little like the Red Baron or Johnny Johnson of the RAF. I would switch carburetor heat off, neutralize the flaps, shove the throttle all the way in, watch the air speed as the needle crossed seventy mph, and then pull back on the yoke and, suddenly, we were airborne with Sylvia and her fastback right beneath us, snapping pictures as we lifted over the power lines – yes, there were power lines – and over the trees beyond. It was thrilling and heroic and, with my best girl looking on, filled with romance. All that was missing was some music from the “Battle of Britain” movie. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I almost forgot that I was fearful of heights and always had been, since birth.

“One more time,” my instructor yelled into my ear above the engine noise,” and then we’ll pack it in for the day.” I nodded at him, finished my climb out and turned until I was parallel with the runway again; ran along it and beyond it, turned back into my approach, turned on carburetor heat, throttled back, applied some flap, throttled back a little more as the runway came up to meet us, and then we were down. “One more time,” he reiterated. Immediately I shoved the throttle in again, cleared the flaps and raced down the runway towards the fastback, the power lines, the trees, and towards Sylvia... Only this time things didn’t happen the way they had before; the engine seemed tired; it took a very long time to get near seventy mph; the speed that we needed in order to get airborne. Finally the needle crossed seventy and I pulled back on the yoke. The aircraft hesitated and then, with painful slowness; like an old man climbing a flight of stairs, began a very slow and shallow ascent. It seemed as though the whole world had slowed down in front of me. It was like a still photograph, one of those that Sylvia might already have taken from where she stood right beneath us. In that moment I knew that something terrible was about to happen; the kind of thing which only happened to other people but which could happen to any of us, and then we would be those other people... But while these thoughts sped – in milliseconds – through my nearly paralyzed mind, a voice rang out into my ear and a hand shot forward and threw a switch. “Carburetor heat!” the voice yelled as the engine roared and surged with new power, hurling us up over the power lines, and over the frightened, bowing trees beyond. I held the yoke steady, actually frozen to it and continued to climb out steadily, making no effort to turn. “I’ll take it.” he said and I willingly, gladly, relaxed my hold on the yoke. We flew on as they say: “without a word,” me with my eyes fixed on some invisible point deep within myself until, finally, I felt the redeeming hand on my shoulder. I turned and my instructor was grinning; actually grinning. “You know,” he said, “those damned power lines actually have tiny rust spots on them. Never noticed that before.”

By the time Sylvia had driven around to collect me I had recovered enough so that she, seemingly, noticed nothing unusual. “You were great!” she exclaimed with a big, very welcome hug. “I’m not going back.” I said. I had to tell her right away or I might be too cowardly to tell her at all -- I knew that -- and then I would wind up going back the following Saturday. She must have known that something was wrong because all she said was “OK.
What do you want to do now?” “I think I would like to marry you.” I said. And my beautiful Sylvia, once more replied “OK.”

That was forty two years ago. Sylvia and I live in Colorado now but I’m sorry that the airport is almost completely gone, even though I might never have gone there again. Something happened there; something of importance and, oh yeah, I never did find out what happens when you combine a brand new 1969 Volkswagen Fast back with a Cessna 150 aircraft (vintage unknown).

Eric Stanley Roll
Fort Collins, CO
March 17, 2011

Compiling Family History

Success!

A few days ago, I struck gold! A long-lost cousin contacted me, and now another. I had promised to tell you if my letter on your letters page was a success...it was, indeed. Thank you, for your help.
Dee Bryan
September 11, 2009

Original Notice

I am anxious to make contact with family members in East Hanover. Joe Schuler, former police chief in East Hanover, was my cousin. If anyone in his family would be willing to contact me, and help with the family history I am compiling, I would be very appreciative.
Dee Bryan
castaway4@verizon.net
May 3, 2009

House Is a Disgrace?

I recently visited East Hanover and stopped at what is left of my old home place [574 Ridgedale Avenue]. I am ashamed to admit I lived there in the 50's. The house is almost ready to fall down - the out buildings and garage already has. Someone has finally cleared some of the growth away from the house and now you can see what a real mess it is. I understand no one has lived there for years - WHY HASN'T EAST HANOVER HAD IT TORN DOWN? Are the taxes still being paid on the property? Over the years, while attending high school reunions, I have driven by and I know nothing has been done to the property since my family sold it to the present owners in 1959. The eyesore should be removed.
Barbara Michal Reed
March 16, 2009

Christmas Eve Remembrance

My parents lived in Whippany for almost 60 years in a number of houses most of them near the Brickyard Pond, known to those who don't know any better as Bee Meadow where the town's Swimming Pool sits. Before the pool was built in the mid '60s, the area hosted the remains of an 19th Century brick factory with all sorts scary buildings, tunnels, chimneys, and the creepy crawlers within. I lived my first 22 years roaming this wondrous mix of nature, history, and legends. Attached is a short Christmas Fable that takes place in 1962 describing two of the semi-fictional figures who inhabited this lost world which I ponder often. I now reside in Washington, DC but return on occasion to walk around the Pond to regain the spirit that lived in all of us who lived in Whippany after WWII. I thought during this season with times so tough for many, your readers might enjoy this short tale about what it was like to live near the Brickyard on Christmas Eve when the real and the not-so-real intertwined. Thank you for taking the time to look this over. I think you will like it. Whippany, the Brickyard, what a place to have grown up in and to remember always
Terry Scott Boykie
December 16, 2008

Drive to ShopRite?

Here is a great idea about building a supermarket. Since everyone that lives in East Hanover has a car to commute, What is wrong with driving over to Livingston ShopRite which is maybe 5 minutes away from Pathmark. If you don't like Pathmark then drive 5 minutes more to ShopRite . Both places are affordable when it comes to prices.

Route 10 already looks like Route 22 with stores everywhere so why destroy whatever is left in East Hanover. The reason why we live in East Hanover is to have some quality of life where we don't need to deal with extra traffic and higher taxes to support new building facilities (extra police officers and firefighters and larger schools)
Fred Rebeiro
December 5, 2008

Who Needs Speed Humps?

I received a letter from PMK Group pertaining to placing 3 speed bumps along Timberhill Drive. I think that spending the taxpayer money on building speed humps in a quiet residential street is a waste of money. Instead if there is a abundance of money in East Hanover, maybe it should go towards the school system where it is needed.
Fred Rebeiro
December 5, 2008

Occasionally some letters we get explode into a much larger discussion. One example is the subject of the former Eberhardt Farm.

Another was a question about the airport identification code for the old East Hanover Airport.

More recently, there's been some discussion about a potential new supermarket moving into town.

To contribute to any of these topics or to start a new thread, just let us know!

As other topics emerge, we'll be discussing them right here!