Way to live life Mr. Crossfield! You'll be missed.
Posted on 04/20/2006 11:09:00 AM PDT by Names Ash Housewares
Breaking on CNN web page from AP report.
A little more info please....He was flying his own plane and crashed?
At least he died doing something he loved instead of infirm and warehoused in a nursing home.
I know virtually nothing about piloting planes or national statistics on small plane crashes. However, I do know that roughly half the people who I personally have known in my life who regularly pilot private small planes have died in plane crashes. I wouldn't regularly fly small planes as an amatuer in a million years.
A legend
Prayers for him and his family.
How ironic - survive a crash in an X-15 carrying pretty much a full load of fuel, only to die in a private plane crash.
Scott, you were one of my heros.
How very sad.
Sad news. Rest In Peace, hero.
Very ugly flying weather in the Atlanta area yesterday by all reports. RIP for a legend.
in a million years, it would be OK to take those kind of risks....
you'd have gone far past your natural life expectancy.....
{;^)
Old pilots never die. They just fly below the radar.
Way to live life Mr. Crossfield! You'll be missed.
RIP.
When it's your time - it's your time.
Bless you, Scott!
LOL. That's true, in fact, I promise to fly a small plane regularly starting with my 1,000,036th birthday! Wanna come?
When I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather, not screaming in terror like his passengers...
FLYING WEST
I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
Where pilots can go when they have to die.
A place where a guy could buy a cold beer
For a friend and a comrade whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer could tread,
Nor a management-type would e'ler be caught dead!
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.
The kind of a place that a lady could go
And feel safe and secure by the men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go,
When their wings become heavy, when their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd 'flown west' before,
And they'd call out your name, as you came through the door,
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"
And there, through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he'd taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear
And say, "Welcome, my Son, I'm proud that you're here!
For this is the place where true flyers come
When the battles are over, and the wars have been won.
They've come here at last, to be safe and alone,
From the government clerk, and the management clone;
Politicians and lawyers, the Feds, and the noise,
Where all hours are happy, and these good ol' boys
Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest!
This is Heaven, my Son. You've passed your last test!"
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