Before Amelia (40 page)

The men became familiar with the Wright pusher and the more upto-date Burgess and Brock models, which stood on the field. To introduce the controls, Marjorie used a toy model, dipping it first to the left while a student indicated the proper lever on the big machine, then to another position while the student again indicated the right lever. After this session, students were taken up one by one for their taste of aerial flight. Another time, the students were lined up and told to push against the bottom wing of a tractor machine to experience the power of the machine as the propeller and engine worked at different speeds. When the engine speed reached its fastest point, the aeroplane began to move in spite of the best efforts of the men to hold it. In the process, they learned that the engine and wings could withstand much more force and power than appeared at first glance. Daily, Marjorie took the men through the steps that would ready them for their tests.

The declaration of war on April 6, 1917, changed flying in America for good. The military took over aviation activity; civilian flying ceased except for public-service appearances. Schools like the Stinson School were soon closed, their male personnel absorbed by the military. When the war ended, the free-spirited adventure that early flying had been became regulated, organized, and bureaucratic.

Marjorie knew from her sister's experience that there was no place for a woman in wartime aviation. She ended her flying career as it had begun—flying at a fall fair in Texas, this time in Tyler. According to the contract signed by William Pickens and the East Texas Fair of Tyler, Texas, Marjorie would be paid $1,250 each day, “in equal installments,” for two flights a day during the five days of the October fair. It was a fitting end.

The Stinson School closed in late 1917. It never made money. As Marjorie observed in later years, “small schools did not charge enough instruction tuition to survive on that alone, even with no salary to the instructors.” The costs of good maintenance, fuel, parts, mechanics' salaries, grounds, and buildings were constant. Marjorie put all the money she earned in appearances back into the school, but it always operated close to the edge, with one overriding compensation: knowing that the school performed a badly needed service when few good schools existed. Writing about it in later years, she observed, “Stinson School started on that basis; it didn't just happen. And I would do the same thing again, under like circumstances.”

Marjorie had only two women take flying lessons. Though neither of them soloed, Marjorie was confident that both could have safely flown alone had they chosen to. Marjorie had no doubts about the ability of women to fly aeroplanes; their record was there for all to see. In interviews and articles she voiced her opposition to separate flight records for men and women. Women had proved they could compete with men and, certainly, physical strength was not a requirement. But the cost of training was a deterrent. The military services had trained men in great numbers during World War I, creating a sizable reserve air corps; many of these pilots went into civilian flying. Women lacked that opportunity, and the cost of lessons (anywhere from five hundred dollars to twenty-five hundred dollars) was a further hindrance. She was fond of pointing out, however, that once women learned, “they stayed taught.”

In 1929 she wrote to the National Aeronautic Association to argue against a suggestion by Amelia Earhart and others that one or several events at the upcoming national air races at Cleveland be exclusively for women. Marjorie was having none of it. The suggestion was an affront to Raymonde de Laroche and the pioneer women who knew nothing of male superiority in flying competitions; women such as Hélène Dutrieu, Ruth Law, and Katherine Stinson had provided excellent examples for men and aided their success. To create separate contests for women would instill in public opinion the idea that women are not as reliable or skillful as men in piloting, which would prevent women from obtaining pilot's positions and create inferiority feelings. As an old flier, she knew there was “no place in aeronautics for an inferiority complex—among women or men.”

Marjorie concluded the idea was “mediocre, mid-Victorian and un-American in 1929.” Her ire at full boil, she wrote that she would much rather be an “also flyer” in all competitions than a winner in an amateur competition, such as Miss Earhart's plan proposed. It was a tenet of faith: Women were not amateurs!

In 1918 Marjorie moved to Washington, D.C., with money borrowed from a friend. There, she worked first with the army, then as an aeronautical draftsman with the Navy Bureau of Aeronautics. A letter of introduction to Admiral Gregory from W.T. Pratt summed up Marjorie in a nutshell: “She is not a fluffy ruffles sort of person, more intent on meeting some young man in the corridor, but strictly on the job, always tending to her own business. I think you will like her.”

Marjorie stayed with the government until her retirement. She kept her interest in aviation alive in a variety of ways: She received a license to fly civilian aircraft in 1919; in April 1919 she flew from Bolling Field to the Polo Field near the White House to aid a Liberty Bond drive; she was issued a Department of Commerce pilot's license, No. P 1600, in 1928 that was valid for four years; in 1927 she helped organize the Early Bird Society, an organization for aviators who had soloed before December 17, 1916, and attended the first meeting in Chicago in 1928. (When an application for membership arrived with references to “he,” she crossed out each one and wrote in “she.”) She visited Panama in 1928 and flew the length of the Panama Canal in an army plane. She would have preferred piloting herself, but army regulations prevented that. Visiting at the same time were Charles Lindbergh and Lieutenant James Doolittle, in an assembly of famous fliers.

Marjorie enjoyed writing and contributed a number of articles on aviation subjects to various publications, reporting on new developments, the Cleveland Air Races, flying in the early days, women in aviation, and the new air service between Washington, D.C., and New York City. (Passengers had earphones to hear their favorite radio programs!) In 1941 she presented a script on flying to the War Department that was broadcast on more than five hundred radio stations.

She had an idea for an article comparing carrying passengers in 1914—18 with the modern jet service of 1958, for which she wanted to use some of the lyrics from “Come, Josephine, in My Flying Machine.” She wrote to Shapiro, Bernstein & Co. Inc. for permission and was turned down. She wrote again pointing out how she planned to use the lyrics—“We loved flying so much we burst into song about it”—and received permission. Marjorie commented she guessed that the “examiner for the publisher would have been far too young to have understood the connection between the title ‘Come, Josephine' and the subject matter, anyway.”

Writing—letters, articles, complaints—was much a part of the older Marjorie. Her Christmas card for 1953 showed a picture of Marjorie in a Wright Model B just after qualifying for her license, with the caption “Celebrating 50 Years of Powered Flight, 1903—1953.” Inside was this verse:

Greetings and Wishes for
Worlds of Good Cheer
Flying to You Swiftly
This Yuletime of Year.

She got a kick out of writing verses to share with friends.

As the years passed, she became a zealous defender of Katherine's and Eddie's aviation reputations, taking up the pen when she thought writers denigrated them. Orville Wright was another cause; she chastised members of the Early Birds who criticized him. A stickler for accuracy, she frequently took writers to task for passing off misinformation in the name of aviation history. Marjorie had the facts, sources, dates, or a photograph to prove her point. She maintained a wide correspondence with early fliers and willingly shared information, pictures, and negatives with interested persons. She amassed a large collection of clippings and articles on the Stinsons and other aviation topics, a marvelous treasure of material, which she gave to the Library of Congress.

Family relations were not cordial in later years. Marjorie visited Katherine only once and saw Jack, her younger brother, infrequently and not always happily. Marjorie had a poor opinion of Katherine's husband, Miguel Otero and, being Marjorie, she didn't hesitate to express it; the closeness the sisters had shared as youngsters evaporated. She missed Eddie especially. He had been killed in a crash in 1932.

Marjorie never married. She wrote once to a friend that if Katherine, being cute and smart, couldn't do any better than she had done, she (Marjorie) didn't “have a Chinaman's chance.” Another time, when asked how she managed to stay single, knowing so many nice aviators, her reply was, “They haven't all proposed.”

Less comfortable with the show-business aspect of early aviation than Katherine, Marjorie lacked the kind of personality that thrived on exposure. In later years she preferred to place Katherine and Eddie in the spotlight. Her writing showed wit and common sense—the latter, perhaps, was the real reason she remained single. She liked both her parents and figured that if they hadn't been happy married, perhaps it wasn't such a great idea.

Nostalgia for the early days of flying was strong, despite her interest in the advances in aerial technology. A poem found in her collection probably best expresses her sentiments on the changes in aviation.

“The Move Forward”
Once a flight was alright
          If you landed upright,

No laws, big skies,          
free ai-ah.

Now it's rulings on this   
     regulations for that

Fair well faithful Wright   
  rocking chai-ah.

Upon her death in 1975, her ashes were strewn over Stinson Field in San Antonio from a Curtiss 1931 pusher by arrangement with George Long, a member of the Daedalians, a national fraternity of military aviators. Marjorie had come home.

OTHER WOMEN HAD taken to the sky in the years before the end of 1916. Although less well known than the Stinsons and Ruth Law, they are visible evidence that women were fascinated by the aeroplane and were eager to try it, provided their family and financial situation allowed. For a few women, aviation was a lifelong pursuit; once experienced, its pull was irresistible. Flying offered excitement, freedom, and an exhilarating feeling of being above the mundane world on the ground.

Julia Clark (sometimes spelled Clarke), the third woman to obtain a pilot's license in America (No. 133), is something of a mystery. Often listed as English and the daughter of a minister, she was born in Bangor, Michigan, December 21, 1880, according to her license certificate. (At the time of her death,
Flight
confused her with Lily Irvine, who was English, reporting that Julia Clark was the name “adopted by Mrs. James V. Martin,” and apparently writers continued the error.) She was born Julia Charles to Mrs. Etta Charles. The father's name was not given. Julia was thirty–one years of age when she won her license at the Curtiss School on North Island, San Diego. Within a month, thanks to William Pickens's publicity efforts, she had lost three to eight years of age, to make her more appealing to the public.

According to Julia's own account, she was once a stenographer for “one of the big Aero Clubs of the country,” which gave her an opportunity to observe the sport and talk with many of the men fliers. The upshot was predictable: She would learn to fly. Julia had married J. N. Clark, who was reported to be in Ironton, Iowa, at the time of her death. The Clarks were not living together when Julia took up flying. Her mother, when interviewed after Julia's death, said that watching Louis Paulhan at the 1910 Los Angeles meet had triggered Julia's interest in flying. The Charles family and Julia had lived in California for about three years prior to 1912.

When Julia determined to learn to fly, she went first to the Wrights for lessons and, when they refused, she sought out Glenn Curtiss, who also turned her down. Rejection only made her more determined. She bought an aeroplane, a Curtiss biplane; hired a teacher, Lansing Callan; and proceeded to practice on the same field as the Curtiss School. When she had learned to fly a little, Curtiss came to her and said that if she had made up her mind “to get smashed” and nothing could change her plans, he would teach her the rest of “the art of cloud exploring.”

Within a month Julia was flying as well as any of the men, and she soloed on May 19, 1912. She sensed that “the men do not fancy my flying” because “they hate to admit or have it proven that a woman can do anything a man can.” She was outspoken about her ambition: to make fifty thousand dollars in two years of flying. It was a lot of money, but Julia reasoned she was “playing an unusual role.” She had a keen sense of the show–business aspect of flying and hoped to enrich herself from it. Apparently, she was the main support of her mother and two half sisters who had moved to Denver after three years in California.

As soon as Julia passed her tests, she signed to appear on June 21 and 22 in Springfield, Illinois, in an air meet billed as a “Three Ring Aerial Circus.” Appearing with the boy aviator—Farnum T. Fish, age sixteen—Julia, “the Winged Suffragette,” would fly in the race of nations. Aerial baseball, altitude trials, and mail–carrying flights each day would give the crowd “a run for its money.” The publicity churned out by Pickens touted Julia as English, which may have started the mistake in her nationality.

Julia arr ived in Springfield about a week before the meet. She had done little practicing since her tests in May. Once her machine was uncrated and assembled, she took it up late in the afternoon of the 17th to practice new tricks for the coming meet, which advertised her as the “first woman to fly in the middle west.” According to the
Rocky Mountamn News,
she may have had a premonition of disaster. Using a machine rejected by another aviator, which she had tagged No. 13, she left a note asking that she be cremated if she were killed.