Lindbergh and My Father

Observe that a man who advised Americans to mind their own business at home instead of get dragged into international adventurism is painted as a Bad Man — whereas men whose policies led to the death of thousands of American men and thousands of Japanese civilians (in 1945) are painted as Great Men. Even those who profess admiration for Lindbergh the pilot will accommodate claims that there was something wrong in his advocacy of self-defense for Americans instead of self-immolation. Such is the power of decades of propaganda and the credulity of people who are willing to be deceived.
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ALAN writes:
One of the few titles that my father kept in his modest collection of books was Charles Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis, the autobiographical account of his 1927 flight from New York to Paris. It stood there on his bookshelf for decades, but I was never smart enough to ask my father what the book meant to him. I had reason to regret that failure last month when I watched the 1957 motion picture based upon that book and with the same title.
My father was born only a decade after the Wright Brothers experimented with heavier-than-air flight. He was 14 when Lindbergh made his flight in 1927.
Now I sit here 99 years later, watching that movie and trying to imagine how my father must have felt at that age. St. Louis in those years had four daily newspapers, some of which cost two cents. I imagined my father must have read about Lindbergh’s flight in those newspapers. The flight and the courage it required must have made a big impression on my father, along with the St. Louis connection in the plane, the men who backed him, and the fact Lindbergh had flown many times out of Lambert Field in St. Louis County.
St. Louis sportswriter Bob Broeg was nine years old in 1927. Decades later, he wrote: “In May, along with our neighborhood (the Mount Pleasant neighborhood in south St. Louis)…I listened in fascination to radio bulletins about” Lindbergh’s flight. “In my home area, folks gathered outside Art Meyer’s filling station through the night as the radio boomed out messages describing the plucky pilot’s flight….” (Bob Broeg: Memories of a Hall of Fame Sportswriter, Sagamore Publishing, 1995, p. 11). And I wondered whether my father and his family listened to those same radio messages that night in their own neighborhood a few miles away.
A month later, Lindbergh’s tour of the nation brought him back to St. Louis. He was given a tumultuous welcome. He rode in a parade through the streets downtown that were lined with thousands of people. I wondered whether my father stood somewhere along that route. At age 14, he must have had a desire to see in person the man who had become a national hero.









