JONES FIELD

I lived at an airport for almost 3 years. I made one flight during that time and it lasted about ten minutes. The impression it left has lasted a lifetime. 

Jones Field is an airport situated about 2 miles north of the town square in Bonham, a rural town in Northeast Texas. It opened as a public use facility in 1929. It’s hard to imagine there was much general aviation traffic in and out of this small, mostly agriculturally-supported, community at that time and there was likely a story behind its development, surely lost or forgotten forever by now. Converted to a military training operation in 1941, before Pearl Harbor, the airport property was just over 300 acres in size. Hangars to accommodate 200 aircraft – mostly PT-17s — and barracks to house as many as 800 Army Air Force cadet trainees were quickly, but efficiently, constructed. After the war (actually in 1944, in anticipation of the end of the war), the facility was closed, the hangars were shut down and the barracks were emptied.

 
In three of the barracks, officers’ quarters had been constructed at one end that roughly resembled modern-day apartments, with dining rooms, kitchens, large closets, bathrooms and sizeable bedrooms. For a few years, these quarters were rented out and, somehow, my father managed to acquire one for our family. After quite a few years (all of my life to that date) of living without such amenities as in-door plumbing, we all thought we had moved into high luxury. But what made Jones Field seem like a virtual paradise to me as a nine-year old and later were, first, the immense acreage available for play with fenced-in safety and second, the roller skating surfaces. The fields between and beside the barracks were open and flat, providing ample room for the likes of Tom Harmon, Doc Blanchard, Glen Davis and Charlie “Choo-Choo” Justice to have some of their finer moments replayed, over and over.

All of the barracks and the administration building, to which the airport tower was adjacent, were connected by concrete sidewalks which were probably important militarily at some point, but which provided, for me and my older brother, Ray, roller skate access to all buildings and hangars throughout the facility. The runway was off limits, of course, and we mostly complied with that restriction even though its smooth surface and 4,000 feet length were a constant temptation. Some cracks and pot holes had developed on the surface, but if someone somehow found themselves on the runway wearing roller skates, those irregularities could easily be circumnavigated. But what really made for roller skating heaven were the barracks. The floors were made of smooth cement, perfect for the primitive-style skates we used, and the entire length of the buildings were open, the only obstructions being the bathroom facilities located in the center of each of the buildings. The hallways through these areas were straight shots to the other halves of the buildings, creating something of a fun tunnel effect as we zipped through.

Over time, Ray and I explored every inch of the 300 acres and skated away hours upon hours in and between the barracks. But our explorations were not made from idle curiosity as to what might lie in some distant corner of the acreage. Rather, our roamings were direct results of playing out to the fullest the many imaginary scenarios we created together, riding horses, camels, stage coaches, limos, Batmobiles and just about every other form of conveyance we had heard about or had simply conjured up. All our scenarios began with the word “plike,” a word not heard much these days where play-time imagination has generally been supplanted by video games and YouTube. Plike was short hand for “play like” and a typical beginning would have Ray suggest we plike this or that and I would respond with “OK, and plike this” adding additional features to the basic scenario.

During the war, the airport was a hotbed of activity with hundreds of young men being rushed through flight training. But during our residency, there was precious little in the way of air traffic in and out of Jones Field, so I was always curious when I happened to hear or see a plane arrive. On one such occasion, I was standing, barefooted, as was normal for me at that time if not on skates, near a hangar door when a white-haired man exited a small private plane, wearing a fedora and dressed in a dark suit with tie in place. For some reason, he noticed me, probably with my jaw down to my chest, and came over to where I was standing, hands jammed deep in the pockets of my jeans. He spoke in a deep and raspy voice, asking “Have you ever been up in a plane son?” I doubt that I spoke a reply, but I’m sure I shook my head to signal the obvious. When he said, “Come with me”, I followed without question or worry. He ushered me into the back seat of the plane, which was pretty small as I recall, got in the right seat in front and gave some instructions to the pilot. We taxied out to the runway, took off, flew around for a bit and landed, all the while with my eyes glued to the very small window available to the back seat. 

The man in the suit was Sam Rayburn, long time Speaker of the US House of Representatives. I can’t pinpoint the exact time when this occurred, but I’m pretty sure it was during 1949, the year Mr. Sam had been reinstated as House Speaker following Truman and the Democrats’ victories in the 1948 elections. He introduced himself and his pilot and asked my name, but the only other conversation I remember had something to do with baseball. At the time, I didn’t really wonder why he did what he did, but I have pondered the question many times since, not coming up with a completely satisfactory answer. Probably it was nothing more than a good man handing out a little joy – because he could.

I was in college before I had my next flight. It never occurred to me, as I was training to get my pilot’s license in 1980, that my short flight with Mr. Sam had anything to do with my interest in flying, but it certainly must have. That and the many imaginary flights I had made as a child. When I got my license, one of my first flights was into Jones Field on a visit to see my parents who were still living in Bonham. As I taxied to the parking area, a flood of memories came over me, particularly the one of my first flight ever.