My flight instructor died a few days ago.

One of the things I found out in reading his obituary (in the extended entry) was that his name wasn’t Hank. That’s what everyone always called him, and it tells much of his personality and temperament that Hank is a name that fit him comfortably.

Hank had existed at the airport my dad worked at (MAF), and indeed he was my dad’s instructor when he finished his private pilot’s license in the late 60′s. Dad had a friend with a Cherokee 6, so on weekends I’d go with him when it needed a tweak, and Hank’s FBO was at the end of the t-hanger row. He had a coke machine, so we went in there now and again. Hank was a Fixture.

Fast forward 30+ years, and I had returned to Midland, and wanted to take up flying. I didn’t even look anywhere else, I called Hank, and we were off into the bright and open skies of West Texas. He taught me through solo, and a few more local hours, then it was time for me to move to Fort Worth. I owe him the gift of flight, and thank him for it.

My logbook, with a pittance of hours in it, will always be cherished by me, because of the interesting doodles Hank would put in the entries:

I don’t know if that is a standard feature in logbooks, but I like it.

An aortic valve replacement put a serious crimp in his instructing career, so he was limited to VFR instruction, but took the every six month certifications with good spirit and good humor.

I failed him by not giving him a Polaroid after I’d soloed (he’d forgotten until after I’d moved), and I never sent it. I’ll always regret that.

Rest in Peace, Hank. You were a Fixture, in the best way. You’ll be missed.
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