We were just there for the fun

“Life is about the adventures you take and the memories you make.” 
— Katie Grissom, author

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News that Jimmy Mason in Mount Pleasant had passed away reached Center a couple of days ago.

Everybody in town knew Jimmy. Soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and ready to help anyone he came in contact with, he never gave anyone the option of not liking him.

He was also the hardware store guy. Third generation. The Mason Family Hardware store was a reliable resource for nails to nuts and bolts, and gift items to garden supplies. They were located on the north side of the downtown store when I was a youngster in Mount Pleasant. By the time Jimmy retired in 2022, the iconic store was on North Jefferson in the old Safeway building.

After I left Titus County, I stopped in to say “hello” every chance I got when I was back in town. Because Jimmy and I shared a friendship and a couple of common memories related to airplanes. One easily classified as an adventure I’ve recounted before. One worth telling many times.

I was a brand-new licensed pilot in 1974 with less than 100 hours in my logbook. Jimmy was a student pilot working on his license. We shared a common instructor in Grady Firmin, who instigated this adventure turned good memory.

“Let’s go to the CAF air show down in Harlingen,” Grady offered during hanger flying conversation one evening. For decades, the Commemorative Air Force has produced one of the best air shows in the country that celebrates vintage warbirds.

 A plan was forged for flying to the southernmost Texas border, packing bags and bedrolls for camping under the wings. I was designated pilot-in-command for reasons lost to time. Student pilot Jimmy filled the right seat. Grady, the Vietnam veteran combat pilot and military instructor with Huey gunship experience in his logbook, took the back seat. Jimmy and I looked at each other and shrugged. “OK,” we agreed.

Ready for an evening departure with a planned stopover in Corpus Christi, Grady said, “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I objected.

“Yeah,” Jimmy added, “We haven’t done a weight and balance check with all this baggage and full fuel.”

Grady countered, “Give it ten degrees of flaps, run up full power and release the brakes. If it doesn’t rotate by mid-field, stop and we’ll throw some stuff out and try again.”

Jimmy and I also agreed that we never met a Vietnam vet pilot that wasn’t fearless or fun.

The plane groaned a time or two, hesitated, and lifted off. We were on our way south as sunlight slipped below the right wingtip. In my book, sunsets and sunrises viewed from a mile high or more are the best.

With Jimmy’s navigation, we found the Corpus airport a few hours later, and we were on the runway.

The next morning, I prefilghted the plane and Jimmy went to grab a sectional to get us to Harlingen. Navigation then was with paper “sectionals.” Think aviation version of a Texaco road map.

“They’re sold out,” Jimmy reported. “No problem, though,” He added. “Someone suggested we fly the coastline south until we don’t understand the radio language. Then fly back about 30 miles and we should be pretty close.’”

“He was kidding … I think,” Jimmy laughed.

Airborne again, a welcome stretch of early morning serenity along coastline viewed from low altitudes was soon disrupted by hundreds of other planes swarming the area, all headed for Harlingen.

We tuned to the assigned frequency for air show traffic where a recording repeated, “enter holding pattern over Combes, maintain 500-foot vertical spacing, listen for the last digit of your N number to breakout, switch to tower frequency and enter left downwind for 36 left maintaining one-mile spacing.”

We circled until we had the instructions memorized. Then Jimmy heard it. “Our turn.” In the pattern at Harlingen, we were about to land; a good thing because fuel was low. That’s when the tower instructed, “Green Cessna on final, go around—too close to aircraft ahead.”

“Forget it,” Grady said from the back seat, “Go!” I looked at Jimmy, he looked at me, and we agreed, “OK.” Keying the mic, I replied, “Harlingen tower, green Cessna, negative go around. Insufficient fuel.”

We breathed a sigh of relief when the plane’s tires reconnected with terra-firma issuing a reassuring chirp. We were on the ground.

Two days of memories later, we headed home. After one late-night landing for fuel at a sleepy Bryan, Texas airport, we made our final touch down at Mount Pleasant around midnight with no clue regarding the value those memories made with friends would hold in the years to come.

Because Jimmy, Grady, and I … we were just there for the fun.