Carl Olson

There is something about having an airplane. Once you have owned one, you don’t have to do it again, but without an airplane, you find endless reasons for wanting another.

I’m no longer interested in high performance. I just crave something that will fly.

The “Ercoupe,” an airplane of the 1940’s, cruises at about 100 mph and sips fuel. They have two seats, are all metal with a twin boom tail.

Most came without rudder pedals and were driven like a car even on the ground.

I cut church and yielded to Carl’s offer of an airplane “in flyable condition” in central Nebraska.

Carl’s great-great-grandfather came to the Midwest with the half-million Swedes that immigrated between 1867 and 1890. Except for a few strays, they settled in clumps.

I located the small town, the correct road, and was in the yard when Carl and Susanna returned from church.

Susanna Bernwald married Carl at fifteen. Their families were neighbors.

Carl Olson is a stoic Nebraska farmer. His light brown hair shows gouges of a kitchen haircut. Square jaws meet in a round jutting chin. His eyes are deep, his face sun-browned to the brow, his forehead pale from the shade of an habitual hat.

Carl’s slim frame was covered by a wellworn, black, Lutheran, single-breasted suit. He wore black, unpolished, shoes over white socks.

His hands are sun-cured with large thumbs and can-opener nails. He stands with those hands hanging by his side as if he misplaced them.

The remarkable feature of Carl’s face is his mouth. It’s a straight line, and stays sealed most of the time.

Susanna is a plain looking woman with great teeth. Her homemade, plaid dress had cutout flowers on the bib. She’s creative without being stylish.

She is the smiley, engaging one. It is hard to visualize Carl Olson smiling, much less being seized by a hard, chest locking laugh.

There was an error in the advertisement. Carl’s airplane, a late 1940’s Ercoupe, “COULD BE in flyable condition,” but isn’t. It is a basket case, a “project.” The side has been “oil canned” and chickens have called it home. I passed.

As conversation and Carl warmed, he ripened from mute to chatty in spurts.

I was met by peafowls in the yard. From the spotted proof on the trunk, they’d been there for some time.

Yellow specks of cracked corn hid in the seams of the car; scratch feed. I was set up!

Carl Olson stood by the front steps, arms dangling, that line of a mouth twitching at the ends. I could almost read his mind.

“Gotcha!”

joenphillips@yahoo.com