With this past weekend being Memorial Day, while I was out taking photos of volunteers putting flowers and flags on the graves of veterans, I found my thoughts wandering away. Over into the Ozarks, to a veterans cemetery in Springfield, Mo., where my grandparents -- Rex and Loretta Crewse -- are buried.
I have family there who go out every year to decorate their graves, much as I do here for my mother and brother, but I’ve always wished that I could magically transport myself to Springfield and do both. You see, my grandfather Rex was always like another dad to me. He and my grandmother -- also known as Retta -- were huge parts of my childhood and I still miss them every single day since they’ve left this earth. Ever since I was a very little child, I would hear stories about his time in the Army and how he longed to be an Air Force pilot.
As the story goes, when he returned from Germany in 1960, he wanted to turn around and enlist in the Air Force. However, my grandmother put her foot down and said no. There was no way she was going to go another three years with his mother while he was gone (Great-Grandma Gladys was notorious for calling everyone she disagreed with “heifers”, but that’s another story for another day). So, he stayed. And as a result, my aunt Sherry was born and in 1966 my mother came along. I have no idea how true that story is -- all parties have since passed away -- so, that is the story I’m going to go with. Though, the entirety of my Ozarks side of the family is prone to exaggeration, so maybe take it with a grain of salt.
He also told me about how he was in the Army with Elvis. There is a photo somewhere, and I do remember seeing it, so this story I can confirm has a bit of truth. I don’t believe they actually served together, but at the very least, Papa Rex met him or got a photo of him.
But the memories that stay with me the most are the air shows.
My grandfather loved flying. When Grams said no to the Air Force, Papa went out and got his pilot’s license anyway. He then joined the Commemorative Air Force -- a group dedicated to saving and preserving military aircraft that started up shortly after WWII. He flew a C41 Twin Beech from the Royal Canadian Air Force called the Canadian Queen in many air shows, taking me and my siblings along. He and my grandmother created a family with the group and ended up being members of several wings spread throughout Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. I even joined as a cadet when I was 17. Papa made me promise I’d get my pilot’s license someday. While I have yet to accomplish that, it’s still on the list. I did, however, get his plane tattooed on my forearm, flying over the Ozark Mountains as a memorial for him and Grams that I can carry with me always.
More than his love for old planes, was his love for veterans, especially WWII vets. Every show or CAF event he went to, he made new friends. Papa Rex was outgoing and could make friends with a rock (in case anyone wondered where I got it). In fact, I remember this particular ability coming in handy while we were at a show at McConnell (or possibly Midland -- can’t remember exactly). He made friends with one of the mechanics who worked on the B2 bomber on static display. This friendship got us into the cockpit, which was wild. I just remember being told “If anyone asks, say you’re ejection seat qualified.” It made for a good photo.
Probably his closest friend was a pilot named Charles “Chaunce” Chauncy, who flew 35 combat missions in the B29 Superfortress “Goin’ Jesse.” I remember listening to them talk, even though I can’t really recall the stories. And how much my grandfather loved and respected Chauncy. He came to my grandfather’s funeral in 2008 and passed away almost 10 years later.
Papa Rex gave me my first flying lesson when I was 19. He took me up in the Queen one sunny day and sat me in the co-pilot’s seat. I remember being busy looking out the window and hearing, “Hey, Emmie, look!” I spun my head around to find Papa leaning back in the pilot’s seat with his hands behind his head. The plane began to dip as I realized that I was controlling it. Thankfully, I corrected, and it was smooth sailing (so to speak) from there. But not the most conventional ways of teaching your still mostly teenage granddaughter how to fly. Especially in a plane that was built in 1952.
I carry the memories of all those air shows with me. Of Papa teaching me to jitterbug, then spinning me off to dance with a WWII vet. Of hearing stories. Of Papa teaching me about Spitfires, Mustangs, Messerschmitts and Zeros. But mostly, I just miss my grandpa. Planes were our things, but there was so much more to our relationship than that.
While he may have never seen combat, he took his service seriously. And he held combat vets, be they WWII, Vietnam, Korea or any other situation, in the highest regard. And taught my siblings and me to do the same. As they say in the CAF, he’s gone west, but he’s never forgotten. And neither are the many veterans who gave or lost their lives.