confess to being part of the cargo cult of worshippers who lavish the Connie with special affection.  For those of us old enough to have flown on the aircraft back in its heyday, the emotion we feel watching the lovely old bird glide down from the sky like a stately dowager descending a flight of invisible steps is uniquely thrilling.  The plane represents something--style, elegance, refinement--glaringly absent in today’s airline world.

     That June afternoon, the day of our flight to the Joplin Airfest, I arrive at Hangar 9 at the downtown airport two hours before take-off.  Outside, the air is heating up; inside the hangar’s cavernous interior it is comfortably cool.  The door at the north end gapes open, from which the Connie is due to exit; a dozen pigeons flap back and forth through the steel struts and rafters bolstering the roof.

     Machine shops, where the technicians and mechanics keep their tools, line the prefab walls.  Connie shares the space with two other aircraft: a twin-engine Martin 404, once the short-haul mainstay of TWA and other airlines back in the 1950s, and the most venerable commercial aircraft of them all, the DC-3, which the museum, hopes to have operable within a few years.

     Charles “Skip” Gatschet arrives, an old friend from the time I lived in Parkville in the 1960s.  Gatschet wears the official Captain’s uniform--black shoes, black belt, white shirt with shoulder epaulets bearing four gold bars.  He’s a rock-steady, soft-spoken man in his early 70s, with serene blue-gray eyes--a retired TWA captain, who began his professional career flying Connies in the 1950s.

     We reminisce about commercial aviation back then, the way it was before 9/11 and skyjackers and security procedures and soldiers with automatic rifles and people wearing tanktops and jogging outfits lining up to have their luggage searched.  How everybody dressed for the occasion, men in coats and ties, women in suits and dresses, who in turn were treated to the highest standards of professional service.  “The Connie was an elegant airplane in the last elegant age,” Gatschet says.

     We board the plane in the hangar.  I’m heading to a seat in the back when Gatschet beckons to me to join him in the cockpit.  As if reading my mind, he points to the jump seat.  “How about sitting here?” he says in his official Captain’s voice.  My heart gives a flutter. I’m already dancing on air.

     From my perch I can see the tractor as it tows us gingerly out the big door.  With barely a foot to spare at the top of the three tails and the tips of the fuel tanks bulging off the wings, the effort requires adroit teamwork from the ground crew.

     Dave Albright, from St. Louis, a Captain for American Airlines, occupies the Co-Pilot’s position.  He’ll be taking off and landing the craft today.  Riding along in the cockpit is Tery McMaster, a Flight Engineer examiner from California, who will be giving Flight Engineer Jeff Page, of Raytown, his six-month proficiency check.

     It’s crowded with five of us in the cockpit, and the crew hatch on the starboard side remains open to let in some air as we’re towed out into the hot afternoon sun.  A small crowd gathers on the tarmac.  The engines will be activated according to the standard commercial aviation sequence--number 3 (starboard) engine first, followed by 4, then 2, then 1.  With the passenger door located on the port side, this sequence in the old days allowed for late boarding and stowage of luggage.

     Albright leans out the Co-Pilot’s window and counts out loud the eight revolutions each propeller must make in order to lubricate the engine’s moving parts to make sure that no cylinder has a hydraulic lock that might cause mechanical damage.

     “Contact!” cries the Flight Engineer.

     Gatschet reaches up to a panel over his head and throws the ignition switch.  One by one the great engines, with a deep throaty growl, belching fire and smoke, kick into action.

     We’ll be taking off to the north today.  The crew completes the preflight checklist.  Captain and Co-Pilot slide their windows shut.  The tower signals the go-ahead.  Gatschet shoves the throttles forward; with Albright jockeying the wheel, we trundle down the runway, gaining speed.

     The nose of the aircraft tips up; with a faint shudder, we lift off.  A moment later the big plane soars over the dark, gluey ribbon of the Missouri River.

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