Onward and Upward: the Tales of Carol Ann

By Carol Ann Young

This is a story about one womans journey through life. Her journey began in a small town during the 1940s and follows her through many steps from being a housewife and mother, raising four children and surviving two failed marriages to pursuing a career and learning how to fly an airplane something which changed her life forever.
This story is about the freedom and joy of flight, and much more. It is about family, confidence, exploration, adventure and making friends. It is about facing disappointment and finding the courage to persevere, about challenging yourself and meeting life head on.
It is as story filled with much inspiration and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477110614

Carol Ann Young

Life is a journey. It is not where you begin or where you end, but the process of getting there. Life is the journey itself each step playing its role in the whole picture. Through life’s journey we learn many lessons based the experiences we have. Growing up in the small Southern California town of Covina, Carol Ann spent a great deal of time with her sister, Linda Lee, on their grandparent’s ranch. She married at the age of eighteen and after many years as a stay-at-home mom raising her children, she learned to fly an airplane and became a flight instructor. She is currently preparing to participate in the Air Race Classic, a women’s transcontinental air race. This is her story.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Carol Ann Young.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

114231

Contents

Dedication

Strong Roots in Smalltown, USA

A Young Lady Emerges

Love, Marriage, and a Baby Carriage

Growing Family

A New Place to Call Home

Spreading My Wings

Time for a True Adventure

Expanding Horizons

Gaining More Experience

More Delights

Facing Dangers

More Adventures

Lost and Found

My Journey Continues

Author’s Biography

Endnotes:

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my mother, who taught me right from wrong, character, integrity, perseverance, patriotism and honesty, all of those things that make me who I am, and to my children, to whom I endeavored to pass on those values and who have been my greatest challenge, my greatest joy, my greatest inspiration and my greatest supporters. Our children are our true legacy.

I express my thanks to every flight instructor with whom I have ever flown, for sharing their knowledge and experience with me; and to all of my students, past, present and future, for allowing me to share my knowledge and experience with them; and to the aviation community as a whole, a community of which I am proud to be a part and with whom I can share the kindred spirit of flight.

Chapter 1

Strong Roots in Smalltown, USA

Life is a journey. It is not where you begin or where you end but the process of getting there. Life is the journey in itself, each step playing its role in the whole picture. Through life’s journey we learn many lessons based on the experiences we have. We learn about right and wrong, self-discipline, character, self-confidence, and self-respect, and thus respect for others. The journey each of us takes through life defines us and makes us who we are. As I look at my life today and the person my life’s journey has created, the confident commercial pilot and flight instructor and a well-known and well-respected member of the aviation community, there remains very little resemblance to the shy, extremely introverted little small-town country girl who began that journey so many years ago.

The process of transformation from that introverted little girl to the confident woman I am today took many steps from raising four children and serving as a Brownie leader, Cub Scout leader, Sunday school teacher, to pursuing a career as a legal assistant and to learning how to fly an airplane, something which changed my life forever. And somewhere in between I managed to express my artistic abilities in oil painting too. I say this not to brag about what I may have accomplished, for I have accomplished no more or no less than anyone else, but I mean only to say that each person has within himself or herself to do and to be whatever he or she desires. You get out of life in equal proportions to what you are willing to put in. You must meet the challenges to reap the rewards.

I grew up in a simpler time. A time when right was right and wrong was wrong; there was black and white and no gray in between. The sky was blue, and no one ever heard of something called "smog." There were no drugs or guns in schools. There was no television, let alone video games, no cell phones, no computers, and no Internet. Children learned to run and play outside and entertain themselves. I must have been around four or five the first time I ever saw a television set. I was old enough to remember my dad bringing in this huge piece of furniture with this tiny little screen. It was black and white, of course, and I remember how amazing it was to see these moving pictures in our own home.

I was born Carol Ann Young in the small Southern California town of Covina at the Inter-Community Hospital in January 1944. My mother, as well as my sisters and brother, was born in that same hospital, as would my four children be many years later. My mother’s mother was also born in Covina but not in the hospital; she was born at home before the hospital was built. My great-grandmother came to Covina with her parents when she was about seven years old. It was the epitome of Smalltown, USA, in every detail.

My family heritage is one of sturdy pioneer stock and strong religious beliefs. The Overholtzers came to America in the early 1800s and became part of what was commonly called Pennsylvania Dutch, which is really a misnomer since the Pennsylvania Dutch were actually German. They were a very strongly religious group and did not believe in any type of violence or war. When the Civil War began, the Overholtzer family traveled west by covered wagon to avoid being forced to go against their religious beliefs and fight in the war, my great-grandmother Sweeny traveled with her parents to California and settled in the newly established town of Covina. It must have required great strength of spirit to travel across this great land during the 1800s, and perhaps years and years later, after a slow start, I inherited some of that spirit.

I was the second child in the family, shy and quiet with bright red hair and freckles. My sister Linda Lee was two years elder. Linda was quiet too but not so shy. Her hair was blonde, and her skin was smooth and unblemished. She was always neat as a pin, whereas I was often rather rumpled. We were both very petite, and as adults, we each reached a little over five feet with the same slender yet shapely build. There was no doubt we were sisters.

Image%2001.jpg

1947: Carol Ann, her mother, and her sister Linda Lee.

Covina was still a small town when I was a child. The entire school district had only one kindergarten and one teacher, Ms. Hilliard, a very large older woman who had been there forever. She had been my mother’s kindergarten teacher, as well as my sister’s. I remember one day in kindergarten, I had gotten into an argument with one of the other kids. I really don’t remember what it was about, but I do remember that at the time I knew it wasn’t my fault and that the other kid started it, Ms. Hilliard evidently thought I was the problem, so she sat me on a stool in the supply closet and locked the door.

The grammar school building, having been built in the early 1900s, had very high ceilings. Way up at the top of the closet was a bare lightbulb with a long pull chain. The light illuminated the entire closet which was filled with all sorts of art supplies, easels, paper, paints, and brushes. I sat there on that stool looking at all the paints and thought, If she doesn’t let me out in one more minute, I am going to get down from this stool and start painting. I was not a mischievous child and it would never even occur to me to intentionally make a mess. So in my mind I would give her that one more minute. But then she still did not come and let me out. So I gave her one more minute, and then one more minute and so on and so on. My thoughts were racing. Surely she will come back soon. She cannot leave me in here forever. School will be over soon and then she will have to let me out.

I was in there for what seemed like hours, but I never did get off the stool; I just sat there being quiet. Despite my desires to get off that stool and open those paints, I never did. I was told to sit on the stool, and, as was typical of me, I did what I was told.

When it was finally time for school to get out, my mother came to pick me up. Where’s Carol Ann? she asked.

Oh no, I forgot about her. She is still in the closet, replied Ms. Hilliard.

Well, Mother started screaming at Ms. Hilliard. What! She is in the closet. Don’t you ever lock my child in a closet again!

Hearing Mother tell off Ms. Hilliard for doing that to me gave me some sense of satisfaction, and I knew I had been a good little girl by not getting into anything and just staying there on that stool. My mother took my hand and walked me out of the classroom, and I just turned my head, lifted my chin, and looked away from Ms. Hilliard as if to say, That’ll show you.

Covina was located in a valley which was mostly a citrus fruit growing area. My grandparents, Mother’s parents, lived on a ranch in the rural outskirts of Covina. There were horses, a milk cow, chickens, and pigs, but mostly they had lemon orchards. Linda and I spent most weekends at Grandma and Grandpa’s. We could run free and play in the orchards. We would play cowboys; one of us was the sheriff and the other would be the bank robber. We had cap guns with holsters and chaps and spurs. No one ever thought about guns being bad for kids to play with; it was the good guys against the bad guys, and the good guys always won. It was part of the character building process of learning right from wrong. Play stemmed from the imagination, we could pretend to do anything and to be anything.

We had a certain freedom on the ranch which we did not have at home, the freedom of exploration and adventure. I always had in me a great sense of adventure, but I was not often able to express that adventurous side (as evidenced by the fact that I once sat on a stool in a closet for hours just because I was told to). One time when I was about four years old and Linda was six, we were riding on Linda’s small paint horse named Tiki. Linda was an accomplished equestrian even at that young age.

Image%2002.jpg

1948: Linda Lee, age six, and Carol Ann, age four, on Tiki.

We had a small child size saddle in which Linda was sitting, and I was on the back just behind the saddle. On this particular day, we were riding alone around the perimeter of the ranch just inside the white-painted fence along the side of the road, we were not allowed to go outside of the fence, when a car came zooming by and frightened the horse. Tiki reared up on his hind legs and I slid right off the back and landed on the ground. The man in the car saw what happened and stopped. He came over to see if we were okay. I started to cry a bit but then stood up, dusted myself off, and he lifted me back up onto the horse. As the old expression goes, If you fall off a horse, you have to get right back on. Lesson learned. We went on riding around the ranch and never gave it another thought. I doubt if we ever told Mother about that incident though. She probably would not have let us ride again.

Another time out on the ranch when I was a bit older, probably seven or eight, Linda and I split up and had gone in different directions to explore. I was walking down a little path across a field when suddenly I froze right in the middle of a step. Directly in front of me, less than a foot away, was a rattlesnake posed to strike. I was totally frozen—one foot in front of the other, one arm stretched forward and one back as they had been swinging with my stride; I knew not to move or the rattler may strike. I stood there like a statue for an interminable time, my arms getting heavier and heavier, my legs growing weaker and weaker, not knowing what I was going to do or how to get out of this situation. Finally, Grandpa came across the field with a shovel over his shoulder and saw me standing there. He called out, Cody Ann, what are you doing? (My nickname was Cody Ann and Grandpa always called me that.) Of course, I did not reply. I could not speak. I could not move. I was frozen.

As he came closer, Grandpa heard the rattle and said, Don’t move!

I thought to myself, Do I look like I am moving? But I still could not speak. He came up very quietly and cautiously and killed the snake with his shovel. I almost collapsed with relief.

My goodness, Cody Ann, how long were you standing there like that?

I don’t know, I whimpered, but it was a really long time. Grandpa put the shovel back over his shoulder and picked up the snake. I followed along behind him trying to step in his footsteps. When we got back to the house, he cut off the rattles and cleaned them and gave them to me. I tried to shake them to make the rattling sound, but I could not.

My grandparents belonged to an organization called The Valley Vaqueros. They would go on trail rides and have rodeos and all that cowboy kind of stuff. Sometimes Linda and I would go to the rodeo with them. This was not a rodeo like we might have today in Houston in the Astrodome with thousands of people and big name performers. No, this was grassroots rodeo with wooden bleachers and just a little wire fence between the people and the action. Linda and I would play under the bleachers and run around with the other kids. We would get a nickel from Grandma and go to the soda machine and get an orange or grape Neihi. You put the nickel in and lift up the top of the machine and move the bottle down the slot to the end where you could lift it up, and the machine would allow one bottle to come through. We would sit and drink our soda in those cold frosty glass bottles and play and pretend we were cowboys.

Living in a small town, you cannot get away with anything. The grammar school was on Citrus Avenue that was the main street of Covina. And about two blocks down Citrus from the grammar school, right in the middle of town, was the drug store with an old-fashioned soda fountain. When I was in second grade, Dad would drop us off at the school on his way to work, so we were usually a little early in the morning before school started. Linda would go off with her friends, so I had time to walk to the drug store and buy a chocolate malt with my lunch money. Now, I loved chocolate malts, and I didn’t need lunch anyway. But the money was for food, and a malt is made with ice cream and milk and good stuff, and if I had a malt, I would not be hungry at lunchtime.

After about a week or so, Mother confronted me after school one day with, Have you been spending your lunch money on chocolate malts?

Well, you did not lie to Mother! Lying was not allowed! If you told a lie, you would be in more trouble for the lie than you would be for whatever it was you had done. And, of course, I didn’t think I had done anything wrong anyway. So naturally I had to say, Yes. That was the end of that; no more chocolate malts instead of lunch. Once I had been told that I could not spend my lunch money on a malt, then I could not do it because then I knew that it was against the rules, and you did not do things which were against the rules. Again, there was no gray.

Mother was very overprotective. For instance, we were not allowed to have a bicycle because if we had a bicycle, we would get hit by a car, and we would get hurt. Even though we could not have a bicycle, we were allowed to have roller skates—the kind with metal wheels and hooks that came around over the toe of your shoe, the kind that required a skate key. Remember those? They didn’t go very fast; certainly not as fast as a bicycle. I guess that was Mother’s rationale on that. Linda and I were allowed to skate to the city park which was only about three blocks from our house. At the park, there was a large oval concrete skating rink and we would skate around and around, then take off our skates and play on the merry-go-round and swing on the swings.

I always loved to skate, even later in life, when I was in my forties, I still liked skating. We lived in Houston, Texas, at that point in my life, and I had a pair of shoe skates with rubber wheels, and I would skate around the block several times after work each day. Since I did not like to run or jog or do exercises, I enjoyed skating; it was a good way for me to get my exercise. However, I never quite mastered the art of riding a bicycle. It must be one of those things you just have to learn as a child.

I recall one time when my eldest daughter Cheryl was about twelve (as I mentioned before, I have four children: Cheryl; Robert, who we called Robbie; Karen; and Erik in that order). On this particular day, Cheryl wanted me to ride bikes with her. I tried to explain to her that I really didn’t know how to ride a bike very well, but she just did not seem to understand that. She was still at that age where she believed Mom knows everything and can do everything, especially something as simple as riding a bike. Against my better judgment, I finally gave in and said okay I would try. She got on her bike, I got on Robbie’s, and we started down the driveway. Or rather, I wobbled down the driveway, fell over, and landed in the ditch. Needless to say, my daughter was quite embarrassed and was amazed at the very thought of a grown person who could not ride a bike. She huffed back into the house mumbling something about never riding bikes with Mom again.

The city park in Covina was the center of activity for many occasions. Like on the Fourth of July every year, the entire park turned into a giant carnival. There were games and rides and food booths and raffles. The entire town would be there, from little kids to grandparents and everyone knew everyone else. It would last all-day long, and then at night, we would lie out on a blanket and watch all the fireworks. It was a time of innocence and fun; however, Mother would not let us ride on most of the rides because she said they were not safe and we would get hurt. We did get to ride a few, and we played lots of games. My favorite game was the one where you throw ping-pong balls and try to land them in little fish bowls. I came home with a gold fish almost every year.

We would eat barbecue and cotton candy and listen to the patriotic music in celebration of our independence. I was raised in the post World War II years, where all Americans were filled with pride and hope, trust in God and country, and happy just to be alive. That wave of patriotism which flowed across the land during the war was still going strong, that red, white and blue, flag-waving spirit that warms you inside and lets you know that you are a part of something bigger. The same spirit which I hoped someday to instill my own children to believe in their country and to treasure their freedom and respect those who had fought and died for that freedom.

Many years later, in the summer, after my eldest son Robbie finished high school and was preparing to leave for college, I learned that I had indeed passed that spirit on to my children. It was 1983, during the Iran-Contra conflict and some American citizens had been taken hostage. On this particular day, something had happened to escalate the situation. I don’t remember exactly what, but Robbie came to me and said, Do you think we are going to go to war?

I replied, I don’t know, to which Robbie responded, Well, if we go to war, I will have to join, I have to fight for my country.

In that moment, a plethora of emotion flowed through me. I felt a concern of not wanting anything bad to happen to my son and not wanting our country to go to war. But the greatest emotion I felt in that moment was pride. Pride in my son that he was ready and willing to defend his country and perhaps even in a little pride in myself that I had raised a son like Rob. We did not go to war, and Rob went on to college and never joined the military. But it was around that time that I started calling him Rob. Robbie sounded like a little boy’s name, and I knew he was now a man.

Growing up in those post-war years provided an atmosphere not only of great patriotism but also of strong moral and family values. Every night my family shared dinner together, and the TV was not turned on until afterward. We all sat around the table and no one was allowed to leave without being excused and no one could be excused until everyone had finished eating.

There was just Linda and I for several years, and then when Linda was nine and I was seven, we got a baby sister Teresa Diane and another seven years after that our brother Frank Milton, whom everyone called Frankie, was born. That completed our family. Mother fortified us with a strong set of moral ethics. We were not allowed to lie nor would we have even thought about stealing or cheating or doing anything that might hurt someone else. That would not be the right thing to do. She also taught us that we are responsible for our own actions. Unfortunately many parents have the attitude that My sweet little child would never do that, it must have been the other child’s fault. My mother was not one of those parents. We could not blame anyone else for our actions. If we went along with something and it was wrong, it did not matter whose idea it was, we were in trouble for going along with it. This provided an atmosphere for developing self-discipline and taking responsibility for ourselves and our own actions. My dad too was a very strict man, but we learned much from him. There was a rule that if we were told to do something, we could not say I can’t. To say I can’t meant you had already failed. We had to say I’ll try because if you tried and could not do it, that was not failure. The only failure was not to try.

I carried on the tradition of actually turning off the TV and the entire family sitting down at the table for dinner with my children. However, there was plenty of entertainment at our meals thanks to my younger daughter Karen. Unlike myself, who was rather shy and quiet, Karen is very much the extrovert and loves being dramatic. Around the time Karen was about five years old, every night, right in the middle of dinner, she would say May I be excused to go to the bathroom? I would always tell her she could go but to wash her hands and then come right back to the table to finish dinner. After a few minutes, she would come running back into the room, throw her hands high up into the air, stop at a point where everyone could see her, and say Tah Daaaah! as if she had just accomplished some magnificent feat for which she deserved great applause. We would all clap our hands, and she would light up with a smile and then sit back down to finish dinner. Karen was also the typical little girl who loved to play with her dolls and play dress-up. Her sister Cheryl, on the other hand, was a little more of a tomboy. Cheryl would rather play baseball or football with Rob and the boys.

As a child, I too had that tomboy side, playing cowboys and having great adventures and exploring out on the ranch, but I was also that typical little girl. Linda and I loved to play dress-up. We often played in the milk house out at the ranch, where there was one entire room filled with all sorts of goodies, old furniture, an ancient stove, and several old trunks. The trunks were full of old clothes, beaded purses, hats, and things of fur and silk from the 1920s and 1930s. We would dress up and parade around in high heels and pretend we were beautiful, sophisticated ladies. Other times we might play house and pretend that we were cooking on that old stove.

Together Linda and I took tap dancing lessons. We had cute little dancing costumes and black patent leather shoes with big metal taps on the toes and heels, though we could not practice in the house because the taps would mark up the floor. At Grandma and Grandpa’s house, we had a large piece of plywood which Grandpa would lay out on the ground for us to practice on, and we would just tap away. At home we had two little Chihuahua dogs named Tiny and PeeWee. We would dress the dogs in doll clothes and push them around in our little doll size baby buggy. Sometimes we would try to dress the cat, but he did not like it very much.

During the summers, the Covina Theater always had a Wednesday matinee. At the beginning of every summer, Mother would buy Linda and me each a matinee ticket. It cost $1.50 for this long piece of paper with little perforated tickets on the end, and each week when we went to see the movie, the