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“Life is about the adventures you take and the memories you make — Katie Grissom
News that Jimmy Mason in Mount Pleasant had died 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 was also the hardware store guy. Third generation.
After I left Titus County, I stopped in to say “hello” every chance I got when I was back in town. Jimmy and I shared a friendship and a couple of common memories related to airplanes. One is worth retelling.
I was a newly licensed pilot in 1974 with less than 100 hours in my logbook. Jimmy was a student pilot working. We shared a common instructor in Grady Firmin, who instigated this adventure.
“Let’s go to the (Commemorative Air Force) show down in Harlingen,” Grady said during a conversation one evening in the hanger. For decades, the CAF has produced one of the best air shows in the country, celebrating 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. Jimmy filled the right seat. Grady, the Vietnam veteran combat pilot and military instructor, took the back seat.
Later, as we got ready for an evening departure with a planned stopover in Corpus Christi, Grady said, “Load up.”
“Wait,” I said. “Yeah,” Jimmy added, “We haven’t done a weightand- balance check with all this baggage and full fuel.”
Grady countered with, “Give it 10 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 agreed that we never met a Vietnam vet pilot who wasn’t fearless nor fun.
The plane groaned a time or two, hesitated and lifted off.
With Jimmy’s navigation, we found the Corpus airport a few hours later, and we were on the runway.
The next morning, I did the pre-flight check for the plane and Jimmy went to grab navigational papers.
“They’re sold out,” Jimmy said. “No problem, though. 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.’” The serenity of the early morning coastline viewed from low altitudes was soon disrupted by hundreds of other planes swarming the area, all headed for Harlingen.
A radio recording that repeated said, “Enter holding pattern over Combes, maintain 500foot spacing, listen for the last digit of your N number to breakout, switch to tower frequency and enter left downwind for 36 left maintaining onemile spacing.”
In the pattern at Harlingen, we were about to land; a good thing because fuel was low. Then 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.
Keying the mic, I said, “Harlingen tower, green Cessna, negative go around. Insufficient fuel.”
We breathed a sigh of relief when the plane’s tires chirped on the concrete.
Two days later, we headed home, with no clue regarding the value those memories would hold in the years to come.
Because Jimmy, Grady and I… we were just there for the fun.
— Contact Aldridge at [email protected]. Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com
