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First Things First
You might be interested in the following poem, from which two lines grace
my .signature file.
The two lines in my .signature come from a poem by Gill Robb Wilson.
First I'll give you a bit of background about the man, courtesy of
rec.aviation's own Bill Robie, then the poem in its entirety.
From "For the Greatest Achievement" by Bill Robie (ISBN 1-56098-187-3),
page 146:
The new NAA [National Aeronautic Association] came to life in early
1940 under the guidance of a dynamic leader named Gill Robb Wilson.
Wilson approached his job of promoting aviation with the enthusiasm
of an evangelical preacher spreading the gospel -- an analogy rendered
even more fitting by the fact that he was also an ordained minister!
Wilson came to the NAA with several years' experience as the director
of aviation for the state of New Jersey and as a past president of the
National Association of State Aviation Officials. He was the ideal
man for reorganizing the association to address the needs of general
aviation. He had previously served as the first spokesman and advisor
to the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association (AOPA), and it is his
home address that appears on their incorporation papers as filed with
the state of New Jersey. To show its gratitude for his service the
AOPA gave Wilson membership number 1.
FIRST THINGS FIRST
The boundary lamps were yellow blurs
Against the winter night
And I had checked the last ship in
And snapped the office light,
And paused a while to let the ghosts
Of bygone days and men
Roam down the skies of auld lang syne
As one will now and then ...
When fancy set me company,
A red checked lad to stand
With questions gleaming in his eyes,
A model in his hand.
He may have been your boy or mine,
I could not clearly see,
But there was no mistaking how
His eyes were questing me
For answers which all sons must have
Who builds their toys in play
But pow'r them with valiant dreams
And fly them far away;
So down I sat with him beside
There in the dim lit shed
And with the ghost of better men
To check on me, I said:
"I cannot tell you, sonny boy,
The future of this art,
But one thing I can show you, lad,
An old time pilot's heart;
And you may judge what flight may give
Or hold in store for you
By knowing how true pilots feel
About the work they do;
And only he who dedicates
His life to some ideal
Becomes as one with what he dreams
His future will reveal.
Not one of us whose wings are dust
Would call his bargain in,
Not one of us would welsh his part
To save his bloomin' skin,
Not one would wish to walk again
Unless allowed to throw
His heart into the thing he loved
And go as he would go:
Not one would change for gold or pow'r
Nor fun nor love nor fame
The part he played and price he paid
In making good the game.
And of the the living ... none, not one
Regrets the scars he bears,
The sheer uncertainty of plans,
The poverty he shares,
Remitted price for one mistake
That checks a bright career,
The shattered hopes, the scant rewards,
The future never clear:
And of the living ... none, not one
Who truly loves the sky
Would trade a hundred earth bound hours
For one that he could fly.
If that sleek model in your hand
Which you have brought to me
Most represents the thing you love,
The thing you want to be,
Then you will fill your curly head
With knowledge, fact and lore,
For there is no short cut which leads
To aviation's door;
And only those whose zeal is proved
By patient toil and will
Shall ever have a part to play
Or have a place to fill."
And suddenly the lad was gone
On wings I could not hear,
But from afar off came his voice
In studied tones and clear,
A prophet's message simply told
For this is what he said
And why his hand will someday lead
Formations overhead,
"Who wants to fly has got to know:
Now two times two is four:
I got to learn the first things first!"
... I closed the hangar door.
Gill Robb Wilson (1938)
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Andrew Tron at Princeton University | awtron@strawber.Princeton.EDU
And of the living ... none, not one who truly loves the sky
Would trade a hundred earth bound hours for one that he could fly.
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