Some of Wisconsin’s best writers hail from the Flatlands. Kristin A. Oakley is one of those.
Oakley’s novel Carpe Diem, Illinois (Little Creek Press, 2014) is a mystery, a suspense thriller, and a romance. Dashing but troubled reporter Leo Townsend hopes to save his career by taking on a ho-hum assignment to profile a small town, Carpe Diem, that is a haven for home schoolers. Just when Townsend arrives to interview the mayor, things in Carpe Diem are heating up, due to an auto crash involving a local activist and the wife of a crusading state senator.
In the process of investigating the town, Townsend finds himself also investigating the accident. The lives and fortunes of the town’s residents—particularly its young, “unschooled” citizens—hang in the balance. There are lots of thrills and twists, and along the way we learn about the philosophy known as “unschooling,” a form of education in which “the children determine what they need to learn, when they will learn it, and how they go about it.”
The book is well-written and moves at a brisk pace. The reader winds up cheering not only for Leo Townsend but also for various teen and adult denizens of Carpe Diem. If you like to examine important social and educational issues in context of suspense and high drama, you’ll enjoy Carpe Diem, Illinois.
Kristin Oakley, who now lives in Madison, was a founder of In Print professional writers’ organization, is a board member of the Chicago Writers’ Association, and teaches in the UW-Madison Division of Continuing Studies writing program. She is also the mother of two daughters who were home schooled. You can find more about her at https://kristinoakley.net.
Carpe Diem, Illinois is the first book in the Leo Townsend series. The second, God on Mayhem Street, was released in August 2016.
July 11, 1959: a sultry night all over the country, including Kenosha, Wisconsin.
We played Wiffle® ball under the streetlight at 23rd Avenue and 68th Street. Dom and Loretta Forgianni, Sandy and Pat Johnson, my sister Cynda and me. Sometime after full dark, maybe nine-thirty, we broke it up and went inside.
Mounting the stairs to our second-floor flat above the Forgiannis, I heard an NBC staff voice—sonorous, gray, authoritative—interrupt regular programming to inform us, coast-to-coast, that a jet airliner was in serious trouble in the East. Pan American World Airways Flight 102, a Boeing 707, had dropped two of four wheels of its left main landing gear into the bay on its ascent from New York International Airport—then known as Idlewild, now JFK.
Prudence and Recklessness
The pilot requested at least three thousand feet of Runway 13R be spread with fire suppression foam. During the two hours it took to accomplish this, he circled the airport, burning as much jet fuel as possible to reduce chances of a catastrophic fire on landing. When foaming was complete, the plane flew another hour—burning fuel and preparing 102 passengers and eleven crew members for a possibly rough landing.
In New York, as in Kenosha, it was a hot summer night. Many thousands of bored New Yorkers drove out to Idlewild to view the spectacle. When airport access roads became blocked with traffic, drivers abandoned cars where they stood and swarmed over the runways and taxiways on foot. Idling and abandoned cars blocked roads needed by New York fire and police units attempting to converge on the airport. Those units that did get through combined with Port Authority police to corral the ambulatory thrill-seekers north of Taxiway Q, more than eight hundred feet from Runway 13R.
Down to Earth
Preparations were as complete as possible. With millions of us glued to our TV sets, the pilot touched down his right landing gear at 130 knots and full flaps, dropped the left side gingerly—with a shower of sparks as the sheared-off wheel strut met the runway—held the craft straight and true while blasting full reverse thrust, came to rest 1,200 feet short of the foamed area of the runway.
Cabin crew deployed emergency egress chutes immediately. Several passengers slid down them before responders cut them away and replaced them with portable stairs. All passengers deplaned in under three minutes.
There was no fire. Hundreds of curiosity seekers encroached on the scene, refused to move back, and got sprayed away by a Port Authority fire truck. Four passengers were injured getting off the plane.
No grand explosion. Nobody died. The pilot was a hero.
The Pilot Was Uncle Ed
My father’s oldest brother, then 44 years of age. The TV reported that around midnight.
Edward Foster Sommers, born in 1914, graduated from high school in Knoxville, Illinois, then attended the University of Washington on a Naval ROTC scholarship. The U.S. Navy taught him to fly. Graduation made him a Naval Reserve officer. On November 29, 1939, he joined Pan American Airways as a co-pilot. After a stint flying Pan Am’s bread-and-butter routes in South America, he came to Oakland, California, in 1940 to fly the transpacific “Clipper” routes in Boeing B-314 “flying boats.” He, his wife Mary, and young daughter Elaine lived on a hillside in Oakland, a pleasant downhill drive to the seaplane harbor at Alameda, from which he flew.
On the morning of December 7, 1941, Uncle Ed had a brush with Infamy as the Anzac Clipper he was flying inbound to Hawaii was forced to divert to Hilo. Its regular port, Pearl Harbor, had unusually heavy traffic that day. But that’s another story.
At the time of his spectacular landing at Idlewild, Uncle Ed was a captain, command pilot of the plane, with full responsibility for 113 lives. He had amassed 17,100 flying hours—not unusual for a professional pilot of two decades’ experience. Only 170 of his hours were in the Boeing 707, which had been in operational service less than eight months.
Inerviewed soon after the landing, he said that despite the complex flight skills needed, he never doubted he would set the plane down safely. His main concern was that when the exposed strut touched the runway, the craft might “slew around sideways and take out a few hundred damned fools on the ground.”
A London-bound passenger on Flight 102 was movie director Otto Preminger. If Uncle Ed had not preserved this man’s life that night, we would not have had such motion pictures as Exodus, Advise and Consent, and Hurry Sundown. Or maybe we would have had them anyway—but not directed by Otto Preminger.
According to my cousin Steve, this was the first major incident for the 707. General details can be found in the pages of the Civil Aeronautics Board’s accident report here and here. A concise summary is also posted on the Facebook page of the Pan American Museum Foundation, Inc.
In a profile that appeared a day after the big event, the New York Times said Uncle Ed “demonstrated the steady, clearheaded qualities essential to the complete airman.” I think that’s about right. It would be a mistake, however, to think of him as the steely-eyed Robert Stack or John Wayne type that we all desire in a pilot. The real life Edward Sommers was ordinary. Though his career took him around the world—he and his family lived in Brazil, California, England, Germany, and New Jersey at various times—part of him was still the small-town boy from the flatlands of Illinois. He received at least his share of the dour, phlegmatic, mundane outlook that marks our family. Perfectly at home guiding a multi-million-dollar plane, he leaned on Mary, his charming wife, for the social niceties of life.
I imagine he relished the world’s adulation of this one particular instance of routine superlative performance at his chosen trade. Who doesn’t like recognition? But I also am certain Uncle Ed was glad to have his fifteen minutes of fame behind him. He continued flying for Pan Am until he reached the then-mandatory retirement age of 60, in 1975. His renowned employer went out of business in 1991. Mary having died some time earlier, he lived out his life as a gradually shrinking old man until his passing just a few years ago.
Need for Speed
One of his grandchildren told me of taking “Grandpa Ed” for a motorcycle ride during his later years. The old man perched on the rear fender, my second cousin (Uncle Ed’s namesake) drove cautiously until his grandfather—like many pilots, intoxicated by speed—said, “Let her rip, Eddie!” The bike then gobbled up a few miles on a rural highway at astoundingly illegal speeds, much to the old man’s delight.
A few paragraphs above I said my uncle was dour, phlegmatic, and mundane—but I never said he was dull.
His name is known to most of us, but it’s unusual to hear it spoken, except around Thanksgiving. Each November, we briefly recall that Squanto taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn, thereby saving their colony from annihilation. We honor him for giving our English ancestors a warm welcome.
There are no true pictures of Squanto. Photography had not been invented; no artist drew him from life. The image above—adopted here mainly for its freedom from legal encumbrance—shows a man with intelligent eyes and open smile, demonstrating the use of fish to fertilize a planting. But Squanto’s story goes far beyond that.
Our knowledge of history can be ten miles wide and one millimeter deep.
“So Squanto helped the Pilgrims get started when they landed at Plymouth. Why, for crying out loud, do we need to know more?”
The Rest of the Story
It’s a fair question, and here’s the fair answer: The full story of Squanto informs us beyond the familiar triumphal tale of European colonization. We heirs of the Pilgrims should desire this information, not to dim the luster of our own history, but to remember it with wisdom and grace.
Squanto never aspired to be the native mentor to the Pilgrims. That role came about because when the Pilgrims arrived at Cape Cod in 1620, Squanto was already quite familiar with the English and even spoke their language.
Six years earlier, he and about twenty other young men of the Patuxet tribe had been snatched in one of many kidnappings by English explorers and freebooters ranging in those days up and down the Massachusetts coast. He was shipped across the Atlantic to Málaga, Spain. In Málaga he was freed by Spanish friars, or escaped on his own, or somehow avoided the life of slavery to which he had been consigned. He made his way—we know not how—to England, where he lived for some time in London.
After a few years, he managed to return to Massachusetts with an English voyage of exploration. When he returned on foot, alone, to the site his old village, he found it abandoned. All of his people were dead or scattered to the winds.
“Virgin Soil Epidemic”
Squanto’s Patuxet tribe had been utterly wiped out by an illness that swept the Northeastern seaboard in those years. Because that illness did not afflict the many Englishmen and other Europeans mingling with the natives at that time, historians consider this great plague a “virgin soil epidemic.” The kind of epidemic that occurs when new disease organisms are brought by outsiders into the midst of a population which lacks prior exposure to them. Nobody knows for sure what single disease, or combination of diseases, rampaged the Massachusetts coast in those years, but the result was a region cleared of former inhabitants. Thus, when the Pilgrims in 1620 arrived on the Mayflower, in foul weather, desperate for a place to hunker down, there was a choice spot of land recently vacated: Squanto’s former home.
One could hardly blame Squanto had he showed hostility to new English settlers. Not only had he been abducted and forced into years of exile far from home, while his friends and family suffered extinction by disease. Many similar kidnappings and other atrocities had been worked upon the local inhabitants in the years preceding the Pilgrims’ landfall. Despite all this, Squanto befriended the Pilgrims.
We would like to think the Pilgrims’ character, which stood out from these toxic relationships, vouched for them; that remaining Indian tribes, such as the Pokanoket under Chief Massasoit, discerned their peaceful and honorable intentions, well enough at any rate to trust them and form an alliance. In this context, Squanto was far from a “noble savage” who innocently befriended newcomers with a great white vessel and strange ways. Rather, he was a capable, worldly man, acquainted with European technology and customs. He consented—given his footloose status on his former soil—to become a kind of diplomat for the neighboring tribe in its calculated attempt to forge an alliance with the least-threatening and most promising band of Englishmen in the region.
After about twenty months of generally satisfactory service in that role, Squanto himself succumbed to illness, leaving the Pilgrims bereft of one important man who had been their friend in adversity. Governor William Bradford, in Of Plimoth Plantation, writes approvingly of Squanto and his influence on the young colony.
Squanto was a complex individual. The Pilgrims were, like many of us, saints but also sinners. Chief Massasoit and other Native Americans sought to advance their own interests. Latter-day champions of the Pilgrims and other Puritans who poured into Massachusetts starting in 1630 point out that the lands occupied by these English immigrants were acquired in fair, legal purchases, duly recorded in colonial archives. It is also true that white European immigrants—legal niceties aside—began to displace the original inhabitants of the land, who retreated ever further westward. This trend eventuated in King Philip’s War of 1675-76, the first real “Indian War” fought in the English colonies. More than 600 colonists were killed; thousands of Native Americans were killed or displaced. The ultimate effect was the continued advance of English civilization and progressive decimation of the American Indian population.
The Moral of the Story
Nobody can undo the past. The people of the past had their own motives, praiseworthy and otherwise, for everything they did. Wisdom for us in the present requires owning the full truth of the past in all its messy–sometimes inconvenient–complexity.