From the ceiling of Tommy Hyde’s room, model airplanes hung in every possible configuration — landing, taking off, diving, banking, inverted. The little boy had built all of them. To fly was his life’s dream … but it would never be: Only one of his eyes provided vision.
One day his father brought him out to the farm I managed. He had called earlier and explained his son’s vision problem, but admitted that he didn’t have the heart to tell the youngster that he could never become a pilot.
“Dad says you’ve got a completely restored J-3 Piper Cub,” Tommy said. Then he reached in the back seat of his dad’s car and brought out a model he’d built. It was a bright yellow Cub — perfect down to the minutest detail, and even had the trademark bear cub on the tailfin. A tiny pilot at the controls wore a cap that read TOMMY.
“Wow! She’s a beauty,” I said. “I’ve never seen such craftsmanship. When I was a child I built many models, but none that well. Let’s go take a look at my Cub.”
When we pulled up to the hangar, Tommy was transfixed. While his dad helped him into the front seat, I explained the gauges. His face gleamed as he took hold of the control stick. I’ve never seen a child so excited.
Cubs can be flown with the right doors open, and as we made a low pass over the strip, Tommy leaned into the propeller blast, gleefully waving and yelling at his father. We flew together often, and except for landings and takeoffs, he was soon able to fly the craft without my help.
Then one day, his dad called. “Tommy came home from school today totally devastated. A boy who knew how much he loves airplanes called him “One-eyed Hyde” and told him that pilots must have excellent vision — out of two eyes. Confirming what the boy said was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.”
Tommy’s visits to the farm stopped, and I pretty much forgot about him until years later when I passed a sign in front of a clinic in his hometown. It read, “Thomas Hyde, M.D.” Curious to know if it was Tommy, I pulled in. When the secretary gave him my name, he burst into the waiting room and hugged me. We walked in his office, and there on his desk was the model Piper Cub.
“Just looking at that airplane brings back so many happy memories,” he said. “I still love airplanes, but as I grew older, I realized that feeling sorry for myself would get me nowhere, and that I must make the most of my life, despite my handicap.”
As we walked out of the clinic, he put his arm around my shoulder and said: “Thanks for all those wonderful memories, and thanks for helping me realize that, like everyone else, I had only one choice in life: Play the hand you’re dealt.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
