1977 was the 50th anniversary of Lindbergh’s transatlantic flight from New York to Paris. A few months before the actual date, May 27, I had started casually refreshing my memories of some of the details. I already had a collection of nearly all Lindbergh’s writings, which I had read. A few years previously I had, from time-to-time, retold Lindbergh’s story as bedtime stories for my son Alex. That was a natural entertainment for both of us. In that summer of 1977, immersed as I was in the history of early flight, particularly in the US, I slowly developed a desire to do something in recognition of what early aviators had accomplished, and out of respect for the people themselves. It had to be unforgettable in some sense, yet reasonable to try, and not so easy as to be guaranteed of success. I finally settled on a flight of some sort, around the US.
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