At the time of her retirement,
she had more time flying than any
commercial airliner in the world.
She sits at the Greenfield Village
(Ford) Museum in
Dearborn, Michigan, literally rotting away after
being entrusted to this fine organization Nearly thirty
years ago. It would take a miracle to restore
her. Anyone into miracles?
I sit and wait for what must come,
My shiny paint...no more.
Is it twenty-seven years...that long,
Since a crew last closed my door?
My gear has long since rusted,
The Wrights have seals of stone.
When the winds of winter blow now,
My joints can only groan.
Ah, but I have memories
Of days so right and fair.
These Hamiltons, now without soul
Would pull me through the air!
You storm clouds make me shutter now.
I can remember when
I'd kiss the whiskers of your beard
and pass you with a grin.
How many crews have steered me past
The country side of towns;
That hoped I'd land to serve them
When the minimums were down.
The single agent station
And single engine stop the fare,
Baggage through the chopper door
And folks from everywhere.
God, I was a beauty!
I rarely ever failed
Through blowing snow and pounding rain,
Or even if it hailed.
The alcohol would free the ice
That hammered at my skin.
The precious cargo always safe
On belted seats within.
The gayety among the crews
I miss with great remorse.
They pampered and respected me
And charted every course.
My service is now over;
My captains were the best!
The course, now, finally charted
To my long and final rest.
March 27, 2001