A Few Dollars in Gas, Some Hamburgers, and a Childhood Memory That Lasted a Lifetime.
The American Time Capsule is a collection of stories celebrating the people, places, traditions, and everyday moments that quietly shaped our lives—and became the memories we treasure most.
You may not remember what you got for Christmas when you were eight years old or what you had for dinner on your tenth birthday. But every once in a while, a simple memory stays with you for the rest of your life.
For me, it wasn’t a trip to Disneyland or an expensive vacation.
It was spending an afternoon with my dad watching airplanes land.
It probably cost him a few dollars in gas and the price of a couple of hamburgers afterward.
More than sixty years later, I can still hear the roar of those jet engines, feel them rumbling through my chest, and remember looking up in amazement as those giant airliners passed just overhead.
The Airport Was Our Destination
I grew up in Ferguson, Missouri, during the Jet Age.
Those airport trips are part of the same St. Louis childhood I wrote about in Growing Up in Ferguson, Missouri—the neighborhoods, family routines, and little experiences that somehow stayed with us for a lifetime.
Back then, you didn’t need tickets to enjoy an airport.
Airports themselves were different places then—somewhere families could visit even when nobody was flying. I wrote more about that vanished world in Airports: Before We Had to Take Our Shoes Off.
Sometimes my dad would pile us kids into the family car and announce we were going to the airport.
Not because anyone was leaving.
Not because anyone was arriving.
We were simply going to watch airplanes.
There was a parking area just beyond the end of one of the runways where families could sit for hours watching the jets come in to land.
The Jets Were Giants
To a little kid, those airplanes looked enormous.
You’d see them miles away at first. Bright landing lights like eyes in the sky.
Just a tiny silver speck.
Then they’d slowly grow larger until suddenly they were directly overhead.
Landing gear down.
Flaps extended.
Engines roaring so loudly you didn’t just hear them…
You felt them.
The sound vibrated through your chest.
For a few seconds, the airplane filled the entire sky.
Then it disappeared down the runway.
A few minutes later…
Another one appeared.
Dad didn’t just watch the airplanes with us.
He explained them.
Both Mom and Dad were licensed pilots, so while we kids were staring up at those enormous jets, Dad was telling us what was actually happening.
As an airplane approached, he’d point out the landing gear coming down and the flaps extending. He’d explain that the pilots were throttling back the power and preparing the airplane for landing.
He’d even give us an idea of what was probably happening inside the cockpit—the conversations with the tower, the landing clearance, the adjustments the pilots were making as they lined up with the runway.
To us, the airplane was just this magnificent machine roaring a few hundred feet over our heads.
Dad could tell us what the men in the cockpit were doing.
And naturally, he couldn’t resist having a little fun with it.
Sometimes he’d watch a jet coming in faster than the others and say something like:
“Okay, kids, the captain has a late date with his girlfriend, so he’s bringing her in hot. Let’s see if he can grease the landing.”
We learned that “greasing it” was pilot talk for putting an airplane onto the runway with a beautifully smooth touchdown.
Another airplane would appear in the distance and Dad might announce:
“I heard Walt Disney was coming to town. I wonder if he’s on that one.”
And suddenly we’d all be staring even harder at an airplane whose passengers we couldn’t possibly see.
Oh, Dad.
He had turned a parking area at the end of a runway into our own little aviation classroom.
I remember being fascinated by those beautiful new jetliners.
The Boeing 707.
The Douglas DC-8.
Later the sleek Boeing 727.
Eventually the brand-new 737.
Each one looked like something from the future.
We’d sit there wondering where they’d come from.
New York?
Chicago?
Los Angeles?
Maybe even Europe.
Every airplane carried people with stories we’d never know.
As kids, our imaginations did the rest.
And with Dad standing beside us explaining what was happening in the cockpit, we weren’t simply watching airplanes anymore.
For a few minutes, we were up there with them.
A Trip to McDonald’s
After we’d watched enough landings, Dad usually had one more surprise.
McDonald’s.
Back then, McDonald’s wasn’t just another fast-food restaurant.
It was part of the adventure.
For kids of our generation, a stop at McDonald’s could be an event all by itself. I explored that part of growing up in When Fast Food Was an Event.
A 15 cent hamburger.
French fries for 10 cents.
A shake, chocolate, vanilla or strawberry for 20 cents.
Dad could feed a family of 7 for less than 5 bucks.
To a kid in the late 1950s and early 1960s…
That was about as good as a Saturday could get.
The Real Gift
Looking back now, I realize Dad wasn’t really taking us to see airplanes.
He was giving us an afternoon together.
He probably spent less than ten dollars on gas and hamburgers.
Yet more than sixty years later…
I still remember every minute of it.
Those afternoons taught me something I’ve only appreciated with age.
Children don’t always remember expensive vacations.
They remember ordinary days that somehow became extraordinary.
A parking lot.
A runway.
The roar of jet engines.
A cheeseburger and a chocolate shake afterward.
Funny how the smallest investments often create the biggest memories.
Some Memories Never Land
At the time, I thought Dad was taking us to watch airplanes.
It took me most of a lifetime to understand what he was really doing.
He was sharing a little piece of himself with us.
Dad was a pilot. He understood what those airplanes were doing in a way we couldn’t. And for a few hours, standing near the end of that runway, he let his kids see the world through his eyes.
He taught us about flaps and throttles and control towers.
He taught us what it meant to grease a landing.
He convinced us that Walt Disney might be aboard the next jet.
And then he bought us hamburgers.
More than sixty years later, I’ve forgotten thousands of days from my childhood.
I haven’t forgotten those.
Every once in a while I’ll hear the roar of a jet engine.
For just a moment, I’m a kid again, standing near the end of a runway in St. Louis, looking up.
And I can almost hear Dad beside me:
“Watch this one, kids. He’s bringing her in hot.”
🗣️ Your Turn
Some of our strongest childhood memories came from things our parents probably never imagined we’d still be talking about sixty years later.
Maybe it was fishing with Dad, baking with Mom, going for Sunday drives, sitting in the garage while someone worked on the car—or, in my case, standing near the end of a runway while Dad explained what was happening in the cockpit of every airplane that passed overhead.
Was there something simple your mother, father, grandparent, or another adult did with you that became one of those memories?
And if you grew up plane watching, I’d especially like to hear about it. Where did you go, and what airplanes do you remember seeing?
Finish this sentence:
“One of the simplest things __________ used to do with me was __________, and I’ve never forgotten it.”
I’ve told you about Dad, the airplanes, and the hamburgers. Now I’d like to hear about your ordinary day that became extraordinary.
🇺🇸 Continue Exploring
Sometimes the memories that stay with us longest began with an ordinary afternoon, a little freedom, and the people who shared it with us. Here are more stories from the world we grew up in.
🪁 The Games That Raised a Generation
Before screens filled our afternoons, imagination, neighborhood friends, and whatever we could find became all the entertainment we needed.
🚲 How Did We Ever Make It to Adulthood?
Bikes, homemade ramps, questionable decisions, and the childhood freedom that somehow delivered most of us safely into adulthood.
💡 Come Home When the Streetlights Come On
When parents gave us a few simple rules, the neighborhood became our playground and being home by dark was about all that mattered.
🛴 Kids Didn’t Need Batteries
A look back at the toys, games, imagination, and simple pleasures that could occupy a kid for an entire afternoon.
🕰️ Return to the American Time Capsule
Browse the curated collection of stories, memories, people, places, and everyday experiences from the America we remember.
📚 Explore the Complete Time Capsule Archive
See every American Time Capsule article—including stories and memories that may not appear on the main hub.
⚠️ Bunker Rule
This one isn’t about proving who remembers the airport, the airplanes, or the price of a hamburger most accurately.
It’s about those ordinary childhood outings that somehow became the memories we carried with us for the rest of our lives.
If your family went plane watching, tell us where. If your dad called it something different when a pilot greased a landing, tell us that too. And if your memories don’t match mine exactly, that’s okay.
More than sixty years can move a few details around while leaving the important parts remarkably clear.
Share the memory. Respect somebody else’s. And please don’t argue with Dad—he was the pilot.
📌 Bunker Notice
This story is based on my childhood memories of growing up around St. Louis and the afternoons Dad took us near the airport to watch the jets come in.
More than sixty years have passed. I can’t tell you exactly which airplane came over our heads on which afternoon, whether these trips happened before or after our family had access to a Cessna, or precisely what Dad said every time a jet approached the runway.
But I remember the airplanes. I remember how low they seemed. I remember Dad explaining the flaps, throttles, landing procedures, and what was probably happening between the cockpit and the tower.
And I remember his sense of humor.
“Watch this one, kids. He’s bringing her in hot.”
The Richard Archives is my way of preserving memories like these—not because they made history, but because they made a life.
Some details fade. The sound of Dad’s voice hasn’t.