Before Amelia (29 page)

The next scheduled appearance was at the Dallas International Aviation Meet, with Houpert, Ramón Alvarez, and Harold Kantner. Wearing a purple outfit, which delighted the photographers, she flew when the March winds permitted. While flying a brief duet with Kantner one day, she abruptly cut out over the city and realized she was not concentrating on flying; fright was beginning to take over. On the third day of the meet, high winds prevented flying. Speaking with reporters of the
Dallas Morning News,
Matilde remarked that pilot John Frisbie had been killed on a day like the present, and she was sure that the nice people of Dallas, much as they would like to see her fly, “wouldn't care to see me killed.” Although she had the distinction of being the first woman to fly in Texas, a shade of caution was replacing her usual daring.

Chatting with reporters, Matilde and Houpert acknowledged the unpredictability of Texas weather. Matilde had been told that day “that the temperature once fell 60 degrees in two hours.” Houpert could top that: “I once fell 100 feet in two seconds.” Good trouper that she was, Matilde said she would try to break her altitude and endurance records, hoping to attract the public. Surprisingly, she declared she planned to give up contract flying “very soon,” explaining that her sister refused to travel with her anymore, and “I certainly will not go alone.” In the future, she would fly only for sport.

Yet on another day of the tour, she insisted she was never fearful in the air because Houpert wouldn't let her go up if the wind was too strong, or the machine was not perfectly adjusted. “He taught me all I know about flying, and I rely on his judgment.” She then gave a plug for the monoplane, her contribution to the ongoing debate on machine safety: The monoplane “is safer than the biplane because there is no chance for the engine to fall on you when the machine drops. Practically all of the fatalities are the result of the engine crushing the aviator when it falls to earth.” Spoken like the sister of a prominent monoplane builder.

The air meet competed not only within the weather but also with the other show in town, the Military Carnival sponsored by Battery A, First Texas Artillery. It was a week long run of activities—minstrel shows, the Miller Brothers Miniature Circus, a country store, the jungle land tent, which had specimens of natural history, including “two splendid specimens of Alaskan wolves” and “the longest snake in captivity”— and all clamored for public attention. It was Mexico all over again; aviators were not the only attraction in town.

Edgar L. Pike, chairman of the committee on arrangements for the meet, reminded the public that part of the proceeds from the event would be used for free band concerts in the park during the summer. “You–all come” was his plea. “The flights are as pretty as any I have ever seen, and the program is attractive.” The aviators did their part to give the public their money's worth, but the Military Carnival was tough competition.

When it was over, Matilde announced she would make one last appearance, before giving up flying, at Wichita Falls, Texas, to fulfill a contract made by Alfred. With Houpert, she traveled to the Texas town accompanied by Louise, as usual. Ballyhooed in the press as her last flight, there was an expectant crowd on hand when Matilde appeared at six o'clock, after a long wait. Excited viewers pressed against the wire enclosure to get a good look as she climbed into her machine. A clean takeoff took her up swiftly, and she circled for ten minutes when the motor began to sputter, forcing her down outside the park. Minor repairs would fix it up, but Houpert warned that the wind was rising. Matilde overruled him; her last flight should be “one of my most successful ones.” She would go up again.

The flight went well—she thrilled the crowd with her handling of the aeroplane as the machine sped higher and higher, until it was a mere speck. Some ten minutes later, it was time to land. Unfortunately, the excited spectators had never seen an aeroplane before and had no idea of what happened in a landing. As Matilde dropped closer to the ground, she saw people standing where the machine was headed; she would mow them down unless she did something. Nosing the aeroplane down so the tail wouldn't flip over, she let the wheels touch, then tried to bounce the machine back up, only it wouldn't go.

The
Dallas Morning News
headlined what happened next: “Woman's Monoplane Wrecked and Burned.” The machine cleared the crowd before hitting propeller–first into the ground with such force that fragments sliced into the gas tank, and, instant ly, the whole machine burst into flames. Fortunately, Houpert and the mechanics had realized her intention and started for the machine. Reaching the burning wreckage, they pulled Matilde out, singed and blackened from the flames, but largely unharmed. She had missed death by a hair in her monoplane. Her phenomenal luck held—it was time to quit.

Her first concern was for Louise, waiting at the hotel; send word that she was uninjured. Working her way through the crowd, Matilde admitted, “That was a close call.” After five months of touring and three serious accidents, Matilde quickly reached a decision: She had flown her last flight.

Matilde, like Harriet Quimby, had a career of less than a year. Harriet's, with much promise, ended tragically, but Matilde was fortunate. She had pushed her luck far enough; she quit while she was still healthy. The years following were divided between time in California and stays in El Salvador. In time the family fortune dwindled, but Matilde and Louise enjoyed a comfortable old age with their sister Ann in La Crescenta, California.

In 1953, Matilde was named fair pilot and official hostess of the Sixth Annual Air Fair at Los Angeles International Airport. Designed to give the public a close–up view of the aviation industry, the fair also commemorated the 50th Anniversary of Powered Flight. The petite, five foot pioneer, always interested in aviation, never flew again except as a passenger, but she enjoyed sharing experiences from her pioneer days with the public and curious reporters. Asked if she drove a car, Matilde, who had risked her life in fragile air machines, replied: “No, I don't. It's too dangerous.” Sister Louise, who couldn't bear to watch her siblings fly, was always behind the wheel when the two ladies went driving.

Matilde died in 1964 at eighty–five years of age, the last of the family. She was buried, with Louise, next to the grave of brother John at the Portal of the Folded Wings in North Hollywood, a memorial to pioneer aviators.

IN THE FIVE YEARS between the first licensed woman pilot and the end of 1916, Katherine Stinson and one other American woman, Ruth Law, stand out as exceptional aviation performers. Both won their pilot's license in 1912, both established distance records for flight, both performed fearlessly in aeroplanes almost comical by today's standards. They were friendly competitors and women of great determination, and they flew an aeroplane with greater skill and intelligence than most of the men then flying. They were aerial superstars.

Katherine Stinson, the oldest of four children, all of whom were active in early aviation, was born in 1893 in Fort Payne, Alabama, to Edward and Emma Beaver Stinson. Emma was one of six children; Edward, one of nine; both came from families who had moved west from the eastern seaboard in the middle of the nineteenth century. Edward Stinson, born in Canton, Mississippi, moved around in his career; his last stopping place was the city of Aberdeen, where, as city engineer, he served with the Aberdeen Water Light and Power Company from 1906 until 1934. Emma, of an independent mind from all accounts, separated from Edward following the birth of Jack, the youngest child, in Canton, taking the four children—Katherine, Eddie, Marjorie, and Jack—with her. Apparently, the couple's parting was amicable. Marjorie once told a friend that being “smart, sensible people,” her parents agreed to live separately.

Emma and her brood settled first in Jackson, Mississippi, and eventually moved to Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Emma, apparently, was a good manager and businesswoman. She started a business printing city directories while in Jackson and, when the family moved to Hot Springs, she continued this business and took in boarders to help pay family expenses. The children never seemed to want for money, the family owned an automobile in Jackson— a sure stamp of success—the two older children attended private schools at different times, and when Katherine became interested in aviation, Emma was supportive and gave her money for lessons and the purchase of an aeroplane.

Originally, “Katie,” as the family called her, wanted to be a pianist. She had talent and studied for several years, including a year at a music conser vatory in Indiana. At this point she had two experiences that changed her goal in life. Visiting friends in Kansas City, she made a balloon ascension with Lieutenant H. E. Honeywell of the U.S. Signal Corps. It was a pleasant experience, looking down from on high. In 1912 the idea of flying took firm shape after a flight with Jimmie Ward in Hot Springs. (In later years her sister, Marjorie, disputed the idea of some writers that Katie took up flying to pay for music lessons. Not so, said Marjorie. Mrs. Stinson gave Katie fifteen thousand dollars at different times for aviation pursuits; money was not a problem.)

Katherine, interviewed for an article in
American Magazine,
stated that her mother “never warned me not to do this or that for fear of being hurt. She never reproved my sister and me for playing with boys. I suppose she thought it would do our little bodies just as much good to be exercised and trained out of doors.” Katherine's luxurious curls and soft southern voice belied a steely resolve.

She had little trouble convincing her mother to let her go to Kinlock Field at St. Louis early in 1912, where she had a flight with Tony Jannus in a Benoist biplane. She loved it and begged for instruction, but Jannus's boss, Tom Benoist, felt females were unsuited for flying—if she didn't crash, she would surely catch pneumonia. Lessons were few and far between; there was scant encouragement from the young men hanging around the field. By May, Katherine had had enough and went to Chicago determined to enroll in Max Lillie's flying school at Cicero Field.

Maximilian T. Liljestrand, a Swede, was an enthusiastic aviation promoter. He had opened a flying school at Cicero Field near Chicago, where he earned a reputation as a careful, sane flier—“not at all showy,” Katherine recalled—using a revamped Wright aeroplane. When Katherine first approached him, he refused her because he couldn't visualize a woman in a flying machine except as a passenger. He was not an easy sell, but Katherine could be very persuasive, and she didn't take no for an answer. In desperation she plunked down her last $250 in front of Lillie, saying she wanted to learn to fly. That decided him—$250 would get her 250 minutes; they were off. Very quickly he realized she had a talent for handling the levers on the dual–control machine.

During her training period, her first flight alone was a memorable near disaster, as she recalled it years later. She had barely gotten up when the motor stopped. She remembered thinking: “Here is Mr. Lillie down below, and he has the $250 and I have the plane in the air and not knowing how to get it down.” Lillie shouted for her to “come down, come down!”—beckoning to her, talking her down by conversation. Showing unusual deftness, she landed just inside the circle on the field, for a precise landing, a neat performance for a beginner and, more important, both pilot and machine were uninjured. Remembering the incident, Katherine felt she couldn't fail, because people were very helpful; they were “all boosting for you.”

After three weeks of instruction, Katherine applied to take the test for FAI (Fédération Aéronautique Internationale) certification. She passed her tests on July 19, 1912, earning license No. 148, issued on July 24 by the Aero Club of America—the American representative of FAI—to become the fourth U.S. woman pilot. The cover of
Aero and Hydro
featured her as “the only feminine Wright pilot in the world.” For the next two months she remained at Cicero Field, making practice flights whenever possible, then moved with the Lillie School to Kinlock Field in the fall, before returning to the family home in Hot Springs for the winter.

The following spring, Katherine and Emma formed a corporation to pursue aviation development. Katherine was president; Abner Cook, vice president; Emma, secretary–treasurer. The capital investment (less than ten thousand dollars, according to one source, although ten thousand was the figure given repeatedly by sister Marjorie) was enough to pay for an aeroplane and start the oldest Stinson child on an aviation career.

The
Aero and Hydro
cover showing Alabama–born Katherine Stinson on her Wright Model–B biplane.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

The aeroplane, a modified Wright B, was covered with layers of dirt and oil. Katherine took the machine apart and cleaned it up, examining every part. She noted that there were a lot of crossed wires that were beginning to rub, “so first thing you know, you'd have a little cut, a wire just worn out.” She removed all the old wires and put in new ones, and “cleaned the whole thing up.” The men on the field ribbed her for her careful scrubbing—“You'll be washing it with a toothbrush”—but when she had finished, the machine looked like new, and it was airworthy. All of her flying career, Katie insisted on a well–kept aeroplane. If something went wrong with an automobile, you could stop and tinker with it; in an aeroplane there was no place but down if something went wrong. She had no good–luck rings or pins, no reliance on anything but a wellmaintained machine. Confident of that, she was ready to begin her flying career.