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| In her own words... Beginnings (1 of 3) |
March 12, 2001 |
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BEGINNINGS: A young Heather Wilson rides her brother`s wagon
The only time I saw tears in Scotty Wilson`s eyes was the day I left home and headed to the United States Air Force Academy. I was 17.
I know that he was proud of me, and not just because I was his only granddaughter. I was the same age he’d been when he’d lied about his age to get into the Royal Flying Corps during World War I. My Dad, Doug Wilson, enlisted in the United States Air Force after high school and ended up a crew chief at Walker Airfield in Roswell, New Mexico.
Scotty was a proud native of Aberdeen, Scotland, but there wasn’t any work to be had there after the war. So he packed up and headed for America where he could make a new life for himself.
A BAG OF POTATOES
He soon wrote home to ask Annie Macintosh to join him in America as his bride, and she did. They were married the Sunday she stepped off the boat in Boston, and now I wear Annie’s wedding ring as my own. Annie was a seamstress and someday I’ll give my daughter, Caitlin, the silver thimble Annie was given by her mother when she left Scotland for America.
I wrote a note that I kept tucked away for a very long time: “The last time I saw my Dad I said goodbye Dad, and he kissed me.”
Annie told me that when she and my grandfather finally settled in Keene, New Hampshire with their two sons, it was the day before Thanksgiving and, it was the Depression. She had a dollar in her pocket that bought the bag of potatoes she fixed for the family’s holiday dinner.
Scotty was a barnstormer and started airports all over New England. So it was no surprise that Doug Wilson inherited his father’s passion for flying. My Dad started trading work on airplanes for flying lessons. He was just 13, and he celebrated his 16th birthday by earning his pilot’s license.
TAX RELIEF FOR DAD... AND THE RED KITE
When his time in the Air Force was up, Dad went home and married my mother. I was their second child, born two days before the end of 1960. Dad bragged about my sense of timing, for being an extra tax deduction for the whole year.
Our house had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a den that was full of airplane. Dad and his best buddy were building their own experimental open-cockpit biplane.
My two brothers and I had a good life in our little house in the woods. Dad built us a treehouse and our uncle applied his welding skills to building a swing set with a trapeze bar.
Dad laughed a lot. I remember the red box kite he built and showed us how to fly. I remember riding with him on his motorcycle.
SAYING GOODBYE
One November morning I came down stairs and saw my mother sitting in the kitchen. Something was terribly wrong. She told my brothers and me that our Dad was dead, killed in a traffic accident on his way home from work. I was six years old.
It bothered me that I couldn’t remember saying goodbye to him. I wrote a note that I kept tucked away for a very long time: “The last time I saw my Dad I said goodbye Dad, and he kissed me.”
Mom faced the responsibility of caring for her three kids, eight, six, and four years old. Nearly two years later, she married again and when my little brother started school, she went back to work as a Registered Nurse. Our stepfather was a policeman, and an alcoholic. Eventually, he lost his job and they divorced.
AIMING HIGH
I wasn’t part of the in-crowd, but I loved school and got good grades. When the Air Force Academy announced it would accept women, I was a junior in high school and decided to apply. I will always remember . . .
In her own words: BeginningsPAGE 1 | PAGE 2 | PAGE 3
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