History That Doesn't Suck - 181: American Aviation: The Growth of the Industry Through the Eyes of Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh, and Howard Hughes

Episode Date: June 16, 2025

“If he is lost it will be the most universally regretted single loss we ever had. But that kid ain’t going to fail.” This is the story of the high-fliers in early twentieth-century American aviation.  Wright brothers Orville and Wilbur stunned the nation and the world with their pioneering flight in 1903, and since then, aviation has spread its wings, so to speak. The Wright Brothers and other innovators like Glenn Curtiss are innovating and pushing the limit while the Great War takes aviation to new heights altogether.  But when the guns fall silent in Europe, the roar of its plane engines doesn’t. Former doughboy pilots and an upcoming generation of postwar aviators have all sorts of uses for these aircraft: crop dusting, photography, high-flying “barnstorming” stunts, and, of course, mail delivery. And as planes get faster and flights get longer; as daring pilots like Charlie “Lucky Lindy” Lindbergh, Howard Hughes, and Amelia Earhart refuse to accept anything short of the “sky’s the limit”; as postage and fine-dining passengers take to the skies; the United States will never the be the same. ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. HTDS is part of Audacy media network. Interested in advertising on the History That Doesn't Suck? Contact Audacyinc.com To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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July 2, 1937. Amelia Earhart is seated in her twin-engine metallic monoplane, a Lockheed Electra 10E, preparing to take off at Ley Airfield on the eastern coast of Papua New Guinea. Tall, slim, and rocking her signature short haircut, the 39-year-old pilot looks to her likewise gaunt navigator, Fred Noonan. Yes, they're ready. It's time for takeoff. Assuming this rough dirt runway, measuring a mere thousand yards, can really get the plane laden with 1,100 gallons

of gasoline off the ground, that is. Amelia grabs the throttles and pushes them to full power. Both engines roar as her monoplane charges forward, kicking up a cloud of red dust, but not taking off. We squirm right along with everyone else, waiting to see if this aircraft will get airborne. Come on Amelia. Finally, she lifts off within the last 50 yards, only to drop out of sight and down toward the Oon Gulf's waters below. Suddenly, the silver monoplane reappears. Flying just above the water, Amelia keeps climbing

until she disappears in the sky. What a relief. But now that we've witnessed this heart-stopping takeoff, let me fill you in on our daring pilot and her current and equally daring mission. Amelia Earhart is an American aviation icon. Born in Kansas in 1897, she had great adventures with her little sister and proved a brilliant student, even as the family moved around in her teen years and navigated her father's alcoholism. When the Great War interrupted her collegial studies at Ogunz, Amelia volunteered as a nurse in Toronto instead, where she often attended to British and French pilots. Shortly after returning to the U.S. to attend Columbia, she visited her parents in Los Angeles and while there, attended an air show with her father in December 1920. Ah, and here, she got to fly as a passenger for the first time. And that was it. She'd caught the flying bug.

Flight lessons and a pilot's license followed, and as the years passed, Amelia became the living example of everything she believed and said about women's rights by demonstrating to the world that a woman can do just as much as a man in a plane. She became the first woman to fly as a passenger across the Atlantic in 1928, the first woman and second person to fly solo across the Atlantic in 1932, and the first pilot of either sex to fly from Honolulu, Hawaii to Oakland, California. But now, this Purdue University lecturing, award-winning, first lady befriending international celebrity of an aviator has her sights on her most daring venture yet. Becoming the first woman to circumnavigate the globe, in this attempt she's also holding to the equator more than any of her male predecessors did, meaning that if she succeeds, her course will be the longest path ever flown around the world. This is Amelia's second attempt at it, and after six weeks spent mostly in the skies,

she's nearly there. From Oakland to Miami to Brazil, across the Atlantic to Africa to India to Singapore to Australia, and most recently, Papua New Guinea. The intrepid aviator has covered more than 22,000 miles. And right this moment, she's just started her 2,556-mile flight from Papua New Guinea to a mere dot in the Pacific Ocean. A less than two-mile long barren patch of dirt about halfway between Australia and Hawaii, known as Howland Island.

And now that you're up to speed, let's get back to Amelia's flight. Things start out smooth enough. Broadcasting from Lay, radio man Harry Balfour is in contact with Amelia and Fred. Harry recommends to the pair of aviatorsators who are now seven hours and 750 miles into their flight that they stick to this signal and not change their wavelength as previously planned. But does Amelia and her navigator hear him? Do they take his counsel? We don't know but Harry loses her soon thereafter. The silence on all sides is deafening. No one hears from Amelia.

Meanwhile, why isn't the US Navy's tug, the Ontario, which is in place halfway between Papua New Guinea and Howland Island, making an hourly broadcast of the Morse code letter in on 400 kilo cycles to help guide the flight per Amelia's request? Did the crew not receive her telegram? Amelia can do little more than fly on, hoping that Fred's keeping them on course as he relies on the stars for celestial navigation. It's now early in the pitch black morning. We're in the Pacific, just a little ways out from Howland Island. Aboard the U.S. Coast Guard's Atasca, where Commander Warren Thompson and

his radio men are anxiously awaiting word from Amelia. They've received two updates so far via San Francisco, the first of which didn't even get her departure time right. Then at 2 45 local time, they hear something. Rather garbled, but that was Amelia. An hour later, they hear her again. Airheart, overcast. We listen on 3105 kc on hour and half hour. The radio men are trying, but so many things are going wrong. For instance, they keep using Morse code, yet neither Amelia nor Fred know Morse, which is why she previously specified using verbal communication.

Nor are their clocks aligned. Amelia is using Greenwich Civil Time, while these sailors are using their local time, and, due to naval practice, are half hour off from the standard hour. Worse still, they can hear Amelia, but she doesn't seem to hear them. Is her receiver malfunctioning?

Around 6.15 am, Amelia whistles into her radio hoping that the Itasca can take a bearing on her but this fails. She's so close that much is apparent. The ship pumps out heavy smoke hoping she can see it. 7 42 a.m. Amelia radios. We must be on you, but cannot see you. The gas is running low. They're not able to reach you by radio." Her voice is strong. She must be within 50 miles of the ship. But with the glare of the sun, that's still far enough to miss the billowing smokestacks,

let alone finding that small speck of an island. Around 8 a.m., Amelia finally acknowledges hearing the Itasca's broadcast of the letter A in Morse. Alright, but she says it's too weak for her to get a minimum, and she doesn't appear to hear them after this. At 844, Amelia radios again. She's breathless. Her voice indicates that her famously steeled nerves are failing.

We are on the line of position 156 to 137. We will repeat message. We will repeat this message on 6,210 color cycles. Wait! Listening on 6,210 color cycles. We are running north and south. Yutaska answers immediately, blasting on any and every frequency Amelia might pick.

But she never answers, and she'll never be seen again. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and transatlantic traversing zeppelin, the Hindenburg, exploded in flames just before tying up to its mooring mast in New Jersey. It left 36 dead. Now, only two months later, Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan have disappeared in the Pacific. Fantastic rumors of Amelia being a spy or even being abducted by aliens fill the void of radio silence, but as extensive searching yields nothing, America is left with nothing

but mystery and a lack of closure. But despite the horrors of the Hindenburg and the harrowing end of Amelia's last flight, disaster is not our main focus today. We're here to explore the world Amelia loved, the world of aviation. Today, I'll regale you with the tale of the rise of American aviation in the early 20th century.

We'll start by picking up where episode 123 left off with the Wright brothers making flight truly viable. But now, we'll see them compete with Glenn Curtis as the aviation economy enters its infancy until Orville and Glenn come together, that is, as the Great War takes airplanes to new heights. We'll then reconnect with Amelia Earhart as she takes her first flight. And don't forget to grab a stamp as we talk about the growth of airmail, which leads to the rise of the airlines you and I will later know.

We'll also meet a handsome young lad who flies that mail and is looking to prove that he can fly across the Atlantic Ocean. That's right, we'll join Charles Lindbergh on his famous transatlantic flight. After that, we'll see how airlines go from delivering mail to delivering people, even as crashes, like the one we'll witness with genius Playboy philanthropist Howard Hughes, are scaring Americans away from the skies. And we'll wrap our episode with Howard

as he sets a new speed record for circumnavigating the globe. It's a packed episode, so please make sure your tray tables are up and that your seat is in its full upright position. It's time to take off with a return to the early 20th century. Rewind. Ah, the Wright brothers. I trust you recall Wilbur in Orville, or just Orv, as the younger of the two is known, from

episode 123, in which we followed these two Dayton-born, bicycle-loving brothers on their years-long and hard-fought journey that led to their historic flight on North Carolina's sandy beaches at Kitty Hawk in December 1903. I know, it was a transcendent moment, but how did American aviation develop from there? Well, to start, the Wright brothers want to make some money with their newly invented and quickly improved upon heavier-than-air, gas-powered, piloted flying machine. And as I mentioned briefly in episode 140, one of the first places they go is the US Army. Yes, the military is interested in flight,

primarily for reconnaissance. Now, their demonstration at Fort Meyer, Virginia in 1908 couldn't have ended worse, considering that Orff crashes, severely injuring himself and killing his passenger, fellow aviation enthusiast, Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge. But this tragedy didn't derail anything. The next year, the Army is completely sold as Orff takes another passenger on a 10-mile round trip, moving at an average speed of 42.5 miles per hour. But the Wright brothers aren't the only ones in the flight game by this point.

As of 1907, the telephone's inventor, or at least its patent holder, Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, is heading up the Aerial Experiment Association, or the AEA. Now, the good doctor's interested in flight, but the one nipping at the Wright Brothers rudder is an AEA member with a killer mustache and soul patch named Glenn Curtis. Similar to the Wrights, this mustachioed New Yorker first started as a mechanic working on bicycles,

but he then made a pit stop in the realm of motorcycles before moving on to aviation. In 1907, Glenn uses his V8 to become the fastest man on Earth, riding his motorcycle at 136.4 mph. The next year, the AEA slaps Glenn's 40-horsepower V8s into its planes. Now these planes can only fly for a few minutes. Nothing close to Orv Wright's multi-hour trips, but the AEA's great accomplishment isn't getting their new planes, rather it's getting Glenn Curtis thinking about flight.

He starts designing planes with something called ailerons. It's a French invention that, like the Wright's wing warping described in episode 123, enables a pilot to control the aircraft's rolling movement, which is particularly important during a turn. But instead of flexing the entire wing of the aircraft as the Wright's system does, it relies on hinges at the trailing edges of the wings. This method is far more intuitive than wing warping, and is simpler both in design and control. Ah, but given that it addresses the same problem that Wills and Orb's wing-warping does,

the protracted legal battles over supposedly stolen patents soon follow. But litigation aside, the world of aviation is growing rapidly as we enter the nineteen teens. Everyone wants to be the first with all sorts of milestones, like Frenchman Louis Blériot, who in July of 1909 becomes the first to cross the English Channel successfully by air. In August that same year, the first international air meet takes place in Reims, France. And soon, another aviation record is broken and set in Southern California.

It's late in the afternoon, January 10th, 1910. 30,000 spectators are enjoying the sight of flight as they sit in a makeshift grandstand encircling a two-mile long course at Dominguez Ranch near Compton, California. And just out of sight is the internationally renowned pilot and innovator Glenn Curtis. Covered in Greece, he's tinkering with his 50 horsepower V8 Curtis biplane, nicknamed the Rance Racer.

It has to be in top form before his coming race with French flyboy, Louis Poulain. See, Glenn and his Rance Racer got the better of Louis last year in France, which resulted in Glenn winning 25,000 francs. Whew. So, the Frenchman is coming at him today with a bit of a grudge. And oh, does the crowd love a good rivalry. As Glenn works, his foe is putting on quite the show. The grandstand explodes with squeals of excitement and horror, as Louis allows his Farman III, a plane nearly twice the size of Glenn's Rantz Racer, to get tossed by the gusty wind. As he dives below the tree line on a distant hill, disappearing from the crowd's sight.

And of course, he gets a bigger cheer than ever when he suddenly reappears, flying directly over their heads. But enough showboating, let's see how the Frenchman and the New Yorker do together in front of this California crowd. With both planes at the starting line, Glenn hollers to his manager, a former AP reporter named Jerome Fanciulli, to hop into the Rantz racer. Talk about a story.

Jerome quickly climbs in. Glenn takes off in a wide circle in front of the grandstand, twisting his plane with its rudder disabled to demonstrate that his plane, unlike the Wright Brothers' planes, doesn't need a rudder to keep equilibrium when turning. Ah yes, subtle jab at his litigious competition. But keeping his focus on beating Louie, Glenn really opens up on his second time around. The V8 engine roars as his plane speeds around the two mile course. Glenn lands expertly right where he started, and as he does, the crowd goes wild.

Army Lieutenant Paul Beck calls out that they've calculated his speed at 55 miles an hour. It's the first time anyone's flown so fast. It's a world record. And the crowd sends hats flying as they cheer for Glenn's achievement. Glenn Curtis's aviation career keeps gaining altitude. With Wilbur and Orv Wright holding a monopoly of sorts on the U.S. Army, Glenn goes to work with the Navy. But the litigation gets nastier between the aviators. Things also get personal. Glenn blames Orff for the death of his friend, Lieutenant Tom Selfridge, back at that army demonstration in 1908. And Orff blames Glenn for stressing Wilbur to death in 1912 as the inventor of flight's weakened body fails to fight off typhoid fever. Though Orv

soldiers on with the Wright Company initially, it isn't the same without his beloved brother. He sells the business in a few short years. But in the meanwhile, World War I settles the legal battles between Glenn and Orv. Not having time for their bickering, the U.S. government waves enough money to settle matters and get the focus on manufacturing planes. And so Glenn and Orff find themselves working together to provide over 13,000 aircrafts and 40,000 engines for the war effort. Indeed, the Great War provides the biggest boost to aviation since Kitty Hawk. As we know from episode 140, some American flyboys join the war before the US does, flying in France's Lafayette-Escadrie. Aces, like Germany's Red Baron, become legends.

America mourns the loss of former President Theodore Roosevelt's pilot son, Quentin. And through it all, Glenn and Orff have flight schools churning out pilots, while the Curtis Aeroplane and Motor Company becomes the largest manufacturer of planes in America. the Curtis Aeroplane and Motor Company becomes the largest manufacturer of planes in America. When the war ends, America finds itself within an abundance of planes and experienced doughboy pilots who have little to do. Well, still loving the air. These veteran flyboys, as well as a few civilian men and women, buy surplus planes for pennies on the dollar and start traveling, offering to show them off to anyone who will pay to

look. Called flying gypsies initially, they eventually pick up the same name as those traveling baseball and basketball teams we met back in episodes 165-67 respectively. Yes, they're called barnstormers. These barnstorming pilots stage dogfights and otherwise exhibit their flying prowess, and most famously perform some hair-raising stunts. For instance, while one pilot flies, another wing walks, which is exactly what it sounds like. The daredevil goes on the wings on foot while in the air.

They'll also dangle from the landing gear, parachute, even switch planes mid-flight by interlocking wings or dropping a rope ladder. These barnstorming exhibitions are thrilling and inspiring, especially to one particular young and often moving girl from Kansas. From her first exposure to a plane at the 1908 Iowa State Fair to watching demonstrations while nursing wounded Great War veterans and 1918 flu victims in Toronto, Amelia Earhart loves to see planes in action.

And as I mentioned ever so briefly in the opening of this episode, it's in December 1920 as Amelia hits pause on her studies at Columbia to visit her reunited parents now living in Los Angeles, that the aspiring medical professional gets different ideas about her professional goals. Ideas that never would have occurred to her had she not attended a barnstorming exhibition while juggling a complicated relationship with her alcoholic father.

It's an unspecified afternoon, December, 1920. Amelia Earhart and her father, Edwin, are at an airstrip known as Rogers Field just off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, California. The area will later be known as Miracle Mile, but that's all yet to come. Right now, Edwin Earhart is here with his 23-year-old aviation enthusiast daughter, Amelia, who couldn't be more excited. Perhaps it's a Christmas present, perhaps it's an effort to make up for lost time, but whatever the impetus, her father has arranged for her first flight ever.

He set it up yesterday when they attended the air meet at Long Beach's Doherty Field. Edwin and Amelia approach their handsome, barnstorming, trick-flying pilot, Frank Hawks. The same age as Amelia, Frank flashes a smile at the father-daughter duo as he says, A good day to go up. Delivering his obligatory dad joke, Edwin quips that he hasn't found A day good enough for a first flight. If he got a laugh, the historical record doesn't mention it. Frank motions to another pilot by the plane and tells the pair,

He'll go up with us. Huzzled, Amelia questions, why? But the exchange of grins gives her the answer. They're afraid a girl like her will get scared and try to jump out of the plane. Thus, as she'll later recall, there had to be somebody on hand to grab my ankle as I went over. Regardless, Amelia's still elated. She's going up. as I went over. Regardless, Amelia's still elated. She's going up. After some instruction, the pilots and Amelia climb into the biplane, likely an Army surplus

Canuck, Virginia. Then all at once, the engine roars to life, and they take off. They fly over oil derricks, soar above the Hollywood Hills, glide through the heavens right over the Pacific Ocean. Frank idles the motor at this point so Amelia can hear him as he shouts through leather caps and goggles to let her know that they've reached 2,000 feet. At this height she can't feel the speed of the plane nor tell which of the many fields below they departed from. It's hard to pick out small details up here. It's a skill that she'll later develop.

Upon landing, Amelia whips the goggles from her dust-covered face with a big grin. As she later writes, As soon as we left the ground, I knew I myself had to fly. Over dinner that night, Amelia tells her family that she wants to pursue flying lessons. Her father Edwin had hoped for the exact opposite, that an actual flight would extinguish her interest in aviation, not ignite it. But having lost the battle and seen how badly his daughter wants to take to the skies, he simply answers, not a bad idea.

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the iPorter to learn more. Add a little curiosity into your routine with Ted Talks Daily, the podcast that brings you a new Ted Talk every weekday. In less than 15 minutes a day, you'll go beyond the headlines and learn about the big ideas shaping your future. Coming up, how AI will change the way we communicate, how to be a better leader, and more. Listen to TED Talks Daily, wherever you get your podcast. Barnstormy makes aviation visible to the average American and puts a bit of coin in the pocket of a select few pilots. Bigger Johnson, and yes that's really what they call him, earns $70,000 in just six months.

But most of these daring aviators are risking their lives for very little reward. The aviation economy also includes crop dusting, air photography, recreation, business flights, and more. But the main economic driver in this new post-World War I era of planes begging to be put to use is mail delivery. While exhibition pilots had toyed with delivering mail in earlier years, it is, once again, the great war that explains this airmail expansion. It was during the buildup to America's entry in the war

that Congress appropriated $100,000 for airmail, and now in 1920, there are complete transcontinental routes. More deliveries lead to bigger planes that can accommodate more mail too. Unfortunately, none of this means greater safety for pilots. In fact, their boss, Second Assistant Postmaster General Otto Praroeger, who has zero flying experience might I add, tells the postal flyboys that when confronted with no visibility fog,

they can, quote, fly by compass, visibility not necessary, close quote. Otto fires those who refuse, leading to a full blown pilot strike. And horrible bosses isn't the end of it. The Liberty engine and the DH-4s that these pilots are flying has a tendency to just stop sometimes. Yeah, it's bad when your car breaks down, but being in the air? Well, let's just say that between 1920 and 1921, there are 89 crashes and 19 airmail aviator deaths.

But even with the risks, the Air Service continues to operate. Its system is quite similar to the Pony Express, if you remember that 1860-61 mail delivery strategy for the American West from episode 83. Like those young, light, skinny riders of yester century, Air Service pilots relay mail from stop to stop along their designated routes. Initially, it's the federally run U.S. Post Office organizing flights, but during the Coolidge administration, the Contract Air Mail Act of 1925, or the Kelly Act as it's also known in honor of its house sponsor, clears private companies for postal takeoff. One pilot named Eddie Hubbard sees serious opportunity. He talks to his boss,

a Seattle local who made a fortune in the timber industry then transitioned into airplane manufacturing during the Great War. A man by the name of William Boeing. Yeah, I'm sure that name sounds familiar. Well, Eddie thinks they're a Model 40 plane with a 425 horsepower Pratt and Whitney Wasp radial engine, which would be more powerful, lighter, and reliable than the 350 horsepower Liberty engines and the Post Office's DH4s, would enable them to beat out the competition on the Chicago-San Francisco route. William is hesitant, but after talking with his wife Bertha, the bespectacled, mustachioed industrialist of the Pacific Northwest, decides to go for it.

He underbids the competition so much that the post office almost drops his offer, but ultimately the Boeing aircraft company gets the bid. They now number among the select few private companies, covering a total of 12 post office airmail routes. By 1926, Uncle Sam realizes that the blue skies are getting a little busy, and that perhaps some governance regarding licensing, air traffic and such would be helpful. The Air Commerce Act creates the aeronautic branch within the Department of Commerce to do this. Down the road, that small branch will evolve into the Federal Aviation Administration,

or the FAA. Air mail, regulations, it sounds like 1920s American aviation is really growing up. But perhaps nothing would prove aviation's growing abilities, like a flight across the Atlantic Ocean. At least, that's what Charles Lindbergh thinks. Born in Detroit, Michigan in 1902, Charles Augustus Lindberg Jr., or Charles, C.A., and eventually Lindy, or Slim, didn't have a perfect childhood. Though not divorced, his parents separated by the time he was five. His mother took him to live on a farm in Little Falls, Minnesota, while his father went off

to Washington as one of Minnesota's congressional representatives. He didn't get to play with other kids here as much as he would have liked. Not to solely disguise little Charles would later love with a modern analogy, but his mother was what we'd call a helicopter parent. Nonetheless, Charles found plenty to enjoy about his farm life, and while still a young teen, that included a Ford Model T. Keeping it running gave Charles his first taste of mechanic work. With better looks than grades, Charles eked by in high school and graduated,

but promptly dropped out of college with dreams of becoming a pilot. Unfortunately for Charles, his first paid lessons turned out to be a scam. Luckily, the financially strapped youth then met barnstorming pilot, Harold Ball. Harold took the down-on-his-l luck aviator wannabe under his wing, so to speak, teaching Charles how to parachute, wing walk, and fly. Charles was an immediate success and managed to raise enough money to buy his own plane for his very own barnstorming act. From there, he was persuaded to join the Army Air Service, which led to further flight training in

Kelly Field, Texas. After graduating in 1924, the flyboy was placed in the reserves and became a pilot for the Robertson Aircraft Corporation, transporting mail between St. Louis and Chicago. And it's in this position in the mid-1920s that Charles the Air Mail Mailman sees a newsreel at the movies that describes the Ortig prize. Offered by French-American hotelier Raymond Ortig, this prize is an award of $25,000 and it'll go to the first flyer or flyers quote, who shall cross in a land or water aircraft from Paris to New York or from New York to Paris without stop." On September 20, 1926, four French aviators hoping to win the prize crashed upon takeoff

from Roosevelt Field in Long Island, New York. But Charles, who saved his own life with a parachute a few times by this point, hence his nickname, Lucky Lindy, isn't dissuaded. He's going for it. With significant support from St. Louis businessmen and Great War veteran pilot Major Albert Lambert, the namesake of the soon-to-be-opened St. Louis Lambert Airport, Charles has $15,000 to build an airplane. He opts for a Ryan Airline Company aircraft with the Wright World

Wind engine. While that's being constructed, the daring aviator studies charts and listens to Navy pilots lecture on long-range navigation. By April 1927, he's got a gorgeously sleek silver single-engine monoplane. He dubs it the Spirit of St. Louis in honor of the city so generously supporting him. The aircraft is built to be light, to hold 400 gallons of fuel, and most importantly to fly. So let's see if this barely 25 year old can do what no one else has yet done. Soar across the Atlantic Ocean. It's about 7 30 on a chilly misty morning, May 20th, 1927. We're at Roosevelt Field in Long Island, New York,

where tall, slim Charles Lindbergh, aka Lucky Lindy, cuts a fine figure in his leather flying suit as he trudges through the wet clay residue of last night's rain. Passing many onlookers, Charles presses toward his silver, custom-built, single-engine, high-wing monoplane, his spirit of St. Louis.

Mechanics check over every single inch and fill her gas tanks to the brim. The sheer weight of all this fuel causes her wheels to sink into the clay. Charles is admittedly nervous as he climbs into the cockpit and settles into his wicker seat. Frank Titchener of the Aero Digest calls out a question to the intrepid aviator, asking if the five sandwiches he's taking are enough. Charles smiles and replies, If I get to Paris, I won't need any more. And if I don't get to Paris, I won't need any more either.

By 7.40, Charles is ready to go. Mechanic Ed Mulligan spins the propeller and the engine fires up. The gauges come to life. Charles must be thinking back over the 1,790 hours he's spent in the air across 7,189 flights in the past four years. Will all that experience be enough? At 7.51, our intrepid pilot puts on his safety belt, crams cotton in his ears, and pulls

on his goggles. Turning to his mechanics, he says, what do you say? Let's try it. They remove the chocks. Charles eases on the throttle, and the spirit of St. Louis starts forward, aided by men pushing at the wings. The plain fish tails, the weight of all the gasoline is holding this bird to the ground. As Charles later remembers, the spirit felt more like an overloaded truck than airplane.

But as he passes the halfway point, the point of no return, he feels the weight shift off of the wheels and onto the wings. He makes a split second do or die decision. He's going for it. With only a thousand feet of runway left, the spirit of St. Louis bounces once, then twice, and as Charles picks up speed, finally is off the ground. The aviator pulls up sharply, clearing a tractor below by a mere 10 feet, then disappears into the morning sky. Though now in the air, Charles still isn't alone. Not at first, at least. Press planes fly alongside him, snapping final photos.

But soon, they fade away, and it's just him among the clouds. By 9.52am, Lucky Lindy starts over the Atlantic Ocean with no radio and no contact between him and the outside world. All he has are his trusty charts. The pilot has prepared himself for the many potential mechanical failures he might face, but there's one challenge no provisions can truly stave off. Exhaustion. Preparations and anxiety robbed him of any sleep the night before, and now, only three

hours into this historic and dangerous flight, the lack of sleep is taking its toll. It's only the dips toward a potential watery grave that snaps the pilot back to full alertness in the tiny cockpit. Across the nation, anxious Americans await news of Charles and his flight. In New York, a prize fight pauses for an update on Charles' progress. In Pennsylvania's small town of Indiana, the 19-year-old future actor, Jimmy Stewart, lies in bed with scarlet fever moving a whittled airplane along a homemade map with each radio update.

20 years from now, Jimmy will famously star in the film, The Spirit of St. Louis, and I trust you can guess what the plot of that movie will be and who Jimmy will play. The famed newspaper humorous, whom we've heard from several times in past episodes, Will Rogers, writes for his column that he'll make, quote, No attempt at jokes today. Old, slim, tall, bashful, smiling American boy is somewhere out over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, where no lone human being has ever been before. If he is lost, it will be the most universally regretted single loss we ever had. But that kid ain't going to fail." Close quote.

Gliding into the night, Charles is amazed by the icebergs below. He's terrified when he hits a storm that tosses the spirit through ice-filled clouds. Without enough fuel to fly around it, not feeling so lucky Lindy is forced to go through, even as ice gathers on his frigid silver plane. But as terrifying as the storm is, he's soon soaring in the moonlight and calm skies. He finds the sun at three in the morning and discovers that a tailwind has actually pushed him farther forward than anticipated. After 27 hours, he sees a porpoise jumping out of the water.

It's a magnificent sight. But not nearly as great as seeing fishing boats. And then land! He shouts down to the fisherman, but gets no response. Soon, Charles spots rolling green hills with those iconic majestic cliffs. He's reached Ireland, and a full two hours early as well. With only 600 miles left until he reaches Paris,

Charles isn't tired anymore. He's got a second wind, and the spirit of St. Louis is flying light now that she's burned through more than half of that heavy fuel. Reports that Charles has conquered the Atlantic are flooding the globe. In France, they prepare for Charles to arrive after sunset and order that his landing strip be illuminated. While they mourn the disappearance of their own pilots, Charles Nougat-Serre and François Collier, over the Atlantic just two weeks before, the French set out to greet Lucky Lindy the way they feel that the Americans would have greeted these two aviators. Flying over the mouth of the Seine,

after nearly 30 hours in the air, Charles finally eats one of his sandwiches. Through the dark of night, he watches as the rural landscape transitions to urban, with lights dotting the ground like the stars in the sky above. At around 10 p.m. local time, he circles over the Eiffel Tower, which is wrapped in lights, spelling out the name of a recently founded car company, Citroën. But then, Charles realizes that, while he's found Paris, he still needs to find the landing strip nearby Le Bourget. He heads just north-northeast of Paris,

which is where Le Bourget is supposed to be. But the lights around it are sporadic, not uniform, like a normal landing strip. In fact, a long string of lights seems to lead all the way to Paris. Flying lower, he realizes that the lights are from the headlights of thousands of cars. He follows, then lands. lights of thousands of cars. He follows, then lands. It's 1022 p.m., May 21, 1927. Charles Lindberg circles the spirit of St. Louis into the wind and cuts his speed, slowly sinking closer to the ground, until his aircraft touches the earth for the first time in 30 hours and 30 minutes, and for the first time ever in France.

The transatlantic pilot rolls into a dark section of Le Bourget, but as he turns towards some floodlights ahead in the distance, he's greeted by a most unexpected sight. 150,000 French men and women have flocked to the airstrip. They've piled on top of cars, crammed onto the roof of the airport's buildings, and now they're storming over the fence, past the police and two companies of soldiers who have decided it's not possible

to hold back the wave of congratulating Parisians. As a New York Times reporter on the scene will later recount, soldiers and police tried for one small moment to stem the tide. Then they joined in, rushing as madly as anyone else toward the aviator and his plane. The first to reach Charles are the airstrip's workmen, who shout out to him, Cette fois ça va! Cette fois ça va! Or in English, This time it's done! Shouting uselessly over the roar of the crowd, all Charles has to say is, are there any mechanics here?

Before he can even get out of his plane, Charles is grabbed and forced into crowd surfing, still unable to touch the ground after so much time in the air. But soon, some quick thinking Frenchmen rescue Lucky Lindy by putting his helmet on a nearby American reporter. The hoodwinked crowd turns its attention to the aviator's new body double as Charles is whisked away to a waiting car. Ultimately, Lucky Lindy is taken to the residence of the U.S. Ambassador to France, Myron Herrick, whom we met amid the Temperance Movement back in episode 157.

And here, after 63 consecutive hours of fighting off sleep the exhausted pilot finally gets to lay down at 415 a.m. for some much-needed shut-eye. Forget movie stars or presidents. Charles Lindbergh's celebrity is on a whole another level. He isn't just a celebrity. He's a hero. It's not just Charles's life that changes with his successful landing in France, it's the whole aviation industry. I hope you don't mind some layovers because the story of flight is no longer just about pilots, it's now also the story of passengers. Cheers.

Uh, excuse me. Why are you walking so close behind me? Well you're a tall guy. You throw a decent shadow when I'm walking in it to keep out of this bright sun. It hurts my eyes. Okay, well you know at Specsavers, you can get two pairs of glasses from $149 and, oh you'll like this, one can be a pair of prescription sunglasses. Sounds great! Where's the nearest store? Not far. Come on. Let's hurry then. To my count. One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one As we already know, pilots have carried passengers ever since Wilbur and Orville Wright first made aviation truly viable.

As for paying passengers, this started with the St. Petersburg-Tampa Airboat Line, which began offering scheduled flights over Tampa Bay in 1914. More such small companies followed. By 1919, Aero Limited was, to quote aviation historian Tim Brady, shuttling passengers between New York City and the steamy fleshpots of Atlantic City. Close quote. Passengers also paid to fly alongside the mail, although most people found the cost, the discomfort, and the risk too high.

And the feeling was somewhat mutual. Most airlines preferred to haul sacks of lucrative stamped envelopes than a passenger. This started to change with Western Air Express. Its founder, Harris Pop Handshoe, got the airmail contract for Salt Lake City to Los Angeles in 1926, and he was happy to charge $90 to fly up to two people along the eight-hour route. Incredibly, 200 people took him up on the offer that first year alone. But the idea of flying passengers takes on a whole new life in the aftermath of Charles Lindberg's transatlantic flight in 1927. People all over America are finally grasping the astonishing speed at which an aircraft

can travel compared to other modes of travel like ships. Thanks to Lucky Lindy's success, businessmen are ready to invest. Over $400 million is poured into aviation securities between 1927 and 1929. I suppose you could say America is playing crazy. That is, America is crazy about planes. And one millionaire is bringing more than aviation craze to the table. It's time to meet the literal inspiration for Tony Stark from Marvel's Iron Man comic books. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Howard Hughes.

Let's start with some background. Howard Robard Hughes Jr. was born in 1905 in Texas. His father, Howard Hughes Sr., took the family from Houston's mosquito-infested bayous to Easy Street when he made a fortune in 1909 patenting a drill bit that revolutionized the oil industry with an ability to cut into hard rock ten times faster than anything else in the world. The family quickly became millionaires as money poured into the Hughes Tool Company. But money doesn't mean outgoing,

and shy Howard Jr. struggled to make friends. The youth did not struggle, however, with math or mechanics. When his mother refused to buy him a motorcycle, he simply rigged a gas-powered engine to his bicycle. Later, while a prep student at Fessenden, his Harvard alum Pops promised that if Harvard beat Yale in an upcoming boat race, he'd buy young Howard anything his heart desired.

The Cambridge crew did indeed prevail, and the 14-year-old cashed in with a ride in a Custis seaplane. That was all it took. Howard Jr. had caught the aviation bug. In August 1921, Howard left for California's elite Thatcher boarding school. Tragic struck shortly thereafter. Only months later, in March 1922, his mother, Aileen Hughes, underwent minor surgery at Houston's Baptist Hospital and never woke up from her anesthesia. For the rest of his life,

Howard refused to speak about his 38 year old mother's untimely death. Meanwhile, heartbroken Howard Sr. followed his wife to the grave with a heart attack less than two years later on January 14th, 1924. At just 18 years old, Howard Jr. was an orphaned millionaire. With the help of his Los Angeles-based uncle, Rupert, Howard ditched school to take control of his dad's company. He bought out the rest of the family, something his grandmother would resent to her death, purposefully not leaving him anything in her will. Oof. But Howard wasn't only using his fortune to make Thanksgiving super awkward for the whole

family. He also used it to jump Thanksgiving super awkward for the whole family. He also used it to jumpstart a career in the movies. His first film, Swell Hogan, didn't make money. Howard hated the movie product so much he ordered it thrown in a vault. Yeah, Hollywood types can be touchy. Movie number two, Everybody's Acting, was a hit with audiences even though critics were more likely to call it, as Hughes biographer Tony Thomas writes, a piece of well-made fluff.

And that brings us back to 1927, the year of Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight. It's also the year that Hollywood produces its first film about the bravery of great war pilots for the silver screen, Wings. Amid the post-Charles Lindbergh excitement, Wings unsurprisingly wins the very first Oscar for Best Picture in 1928. Remember that one for your next trivia night. Well, that picks at three of Howard's interests,

flying, films, and making money. He, in turn, starts production on an aviation war film of his own, as you might recall from episode 162. Yes, this is Hell's Angels. Indoor scenes are finished by the end of 1927, but Howard is very particular about the flying scenes. So particular, he might just have to do some of the flying himself. It's mid-afternoon, January 6th, 1928. Howard Hughes is standing in the middle of Mines Field, later to become Los Angeles International

Airport, better known as LAX. But those developments are a ways down the road. Right now, this is the set for Howard's new high-flying film, Hell's Angels. And it's about to become the site of a major argument. Here's the deal. Howard is ponied up plenty for this film and is technically its producer, but he's also frequently overstepping the professionals.

He's already informed director Luther Reed that he intends to direct all the dogfight scenes. He's taken issue with the pilots pilots and now wants a shot in which low-flying planes swoop over the camera before performing a left bank turn and landing. It's a dangerous maneuver and chief pilot Frank Clark aka Spooks and his fellow stunt pilots know it won't end well. One of them tells their producer turned director, it can't be done Howard You bring that plane in on the left bank, and it'll side-slip two or three hundred feet sure as shootin'.

We can do it at a thousand feet, but no lower. Howard's not having it. Remember, he's a pilot himself. Or will be, when he gets his official license tomorrow. Ah, so he knows just enough about flying to be dangerous. Charles fires back at the outspoken pilot. Ridiculous, you can't tell me that you can't counter control the side slip.

I'll show you it can be done. Howard starts out toward a Thomas Moore scout biplane as he tells Spooks, I want to fly that. Spooks answers the Playboy aviator. Go ahead, Howard, fly it if you like and break your ass. See if I care. Go ahead and do it. Confused, Howard asks him to explain. Spooks elaborates, explaining that Scout biplanes have a rotary engine, and if you bank the same direction as the rotation of the engine,

it can cause the plane to stall out with very little time to correct if you're flying at too low of an altitude. Even still, Howard waves the experienced chief pilot off and climbs into the plane, eager to prove himself to these stunt pilots. All the crew can do is watch. The camera begins to roll as Howard turns the plane to start the stunt. It sweeps overhead, then banks to the left and...oh no, this is just as spooked-sworn. The plane is spinning out of control. Watching it happen, someone on set mutters, my god, there goes 50 million dollars in my

job. Howard and his Thomas Moore Scout fall 300 feet into a nearby hillside, crashing in a cloud of crushed metal and dirt. The crew races to the accident site. They find Howard unconscious and battered in the rubble. When the self-declared director comes to, he rambles incoherently about golf. Howard is rushed to the Inglewood Hospital. Plastic surgery restores much of his handsome face, but he's forever lost his cleft chin. Before this film is finished, three pilots will die performing Howard's stunts.

Hell's Angels premieres in Hollywood at Grauman's Chinese Theater on May 27, 1930. Even if it isn't able to recoup its four million dollars in production costs, it cost reflecting Howard's decision to reshoot all the dialogue scenes and replace the main actress amid the rise of talkies as we detail in episode 162. The final film is a success with critics and audiences alike. There's more to say about Howard Hughes in aviation, but first let's round out some of the other monumental changes coming to the aviation industry after Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight. The frontiers of flight expand in 1928 when our friend Amelia Earhart

proves flight is safe for women by being the first female passenger on a full transatlantic flight. In a nod to Lucky Lindy's transatlantic travel, and frankly, their somewhat similar facial features, she soon dubbed Lady Lindy. As an admin champion of women's rights and equality, it's a nickname that Amelia really doesn't love. Meanwhile, the passenger experience is getting better. We soon have in-flight meals, headrests on the seats, and more routes

opening. Still, Americans are hesitant to fly. Flight horror stories, like that of Howard Hughes' crash or the deadly crash that ends the life of Episode 167's Notre Dame football coach Newt Rockne, are favorite fodder for the newspapers. Americans question, why risk flight when train travel is so much safer? Not to mention that, at this time, train travel is often a part of air travel. Airlines like Charles Lindbergh's Transcontinental Air Transport, or TAT, team up with railroads to fly portions of a trip and then turn to trains at night or in bad weather. But even though passengers enjoy all the amenities provided by what is dubbed the Lindbergh Line, so much is done by rail that people say TAT stands for Take a Train. Worse still is the stock market crash in October 1929, which leaves most airlines struggling

to get people on board. Literally. In response to this decidedly financial, not aviating, crash, the new postmaster general Walter Brown wants to get out from under the airmail contracts. He calls a conference in May 1930 where, as historian Daniel Rust puts it, quote, he single-handedly cajoled or threatened

various contractors to merge operations and ensured through rigged bidding that the largest companies were left with prized long-term contracts." This will later be seen as a scandal, but at the time, the primary outcome is merging small airlines. For instance, Transcontinental Air Transport and Western Air come together as a company which Howard Hughes will later heavily invest, Trans World Airlines or TWA. Boeing Air Transport and National Air Transport become United Aircraft or as we'll later know it,

United Airlines. And several smaller lines form American Airways, which of course you and I will know as American Airlines. Meanwhile, one small Southern airline called Delta Air Service, so named for the Mississippi Delta, nearly goes under as it loses its bid for an airmail route. But something tells me it's going to pull through. Amid all this merging, air travel also significantly improves in the early 1930s.

The Boeing 247 and the Douglas DC-1 and 2 reflect improvements in everything from landing gear to wings as well as better construction. In a word, they're safer than yesteryear's aircrafts. Radio navigation has become the norm for guiding planes and on top of it all, in-flight meals are getting downright elaborate ranging from lamb chops to yankee pot roast and country fried chicken. Initially, all the extra care for passengers comes from the copilot, but they complain that they've got enough of a job actually flying the plane. So stewards are hired to provide pillows, coffee, and of course, peanut service to passengers. Stewardesses enter the picture shortly thereafter.

Turned down for a copilot gig because she's a woman, Ellen Church suggests that she could nonetheless serve passengers and that, as a trained nurse, she would be particularly useful in an emergency. Though still with reservation, United Airlines gives her and seven other nurses a chance in 1930. They not only pass out magazines, but also ratchet the seats to the floor, refuel the

plane, and load luggage. With Ellen's input, their wool uniforms are designed to fit over their nurses' uniforms. There are yet so many other developments in aviation during these Great Depression years, but the key thing is that Americans are becoming more and more at ease with flying, especially as more daring records are set. In 1931, Wiley Post successfully flies around the world in eight days. Two years later, he breaks his own record with a time of 7 days, 18 hours, and 49 minutes. Other high flyers like Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh, and Howard Hughes slowly convert

the American public to the safety of air travel. Even more comforting is the fact that our very own First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt flies with Amelia in 1933. And rumor has it that Eleanor even took over the controls for a few minutes. We started this episode with Amelia's attempt in 1937 to become the first woman to circumnavigate the world. We know that tale ends sadly and without closure, but it's not long after that Howard goes for a new circumnavigating record of his own with a more positive outcome.

So come on, let's head back to New York and end this episode with one more historic flight. It's around 6 in the evening, July 10th, 1938. Amid a cheering crowd, New York World's Fair president Grover Whelan's car pulls into hangar number 7 at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, New York. But it isn't just New York's dapper official reader who exits as the vehicle comes to a halt. No, he's joined by that handsome millionaire celeb and aviator, Howard Hughes. Donning a double-breasted suit, black tie, and his lucky fedora, Howard flashes a golden

smile as he waves to the spectators and reporters, all here to see him depart on a globe-circling flight. Tony Stark, eat your heart out. Now standing before Howard's smooth, sleek metal Lockheed 14, Grover Whalen engages in some not-so-subtle marketing for next year's fair as he officially christened the new aircraft as the New York World's Fair 1939. He then hands the microphone to Howard. Despite his charm, the notoriously shy Hollywood flyboy pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and reads out, We hope that our flight may prove a contribution to the cause of freight ship between nations

and that through their outstanding flyers, for whom the common bond of aviation transcends national boundaries, this cause may be furthered. Howard and his four crewmen then board the plane. He pushes on the throttle. The crowd cheers and tosses hats as the New York World's Fair 1939, heavily laden with not only its crew, but 1500 gallons of fuel and 150 gallons of oil, takes off for France. The flight over the Atlantic faces turbulence, but after 16 hours and 38 minutes, Howard

arrives at the same place where Charles Lindbergh finished his famous flight across the Atlantic just over 10 years ago, the Bourget airfield. Unfortunately, a broken strut delays them eight hours. Back in the air, the New York World's Fair 1939 flies at an elevation of 12,000 feet over Germany. This is in accordance with Adolf Hitler's new requirement, intended to stave off espionage. Even still, the Luftwaffe escorts Howard's Lockheed aircraft, just in case. The reception to Moscow is friendlier. Here, the Russian people greet Howard and his crew with cornflakes and milk

to say nothing of the can of caviar from Joseph Stalin himself. On the afternoon of July 12, 1938, 48 hours into this around-the-world flight, Howard is tired. Very tired. He's insisted on flying the plane practically by himself and is starting to take its toll. Now in northern Siberia, crewman Harry Connor tests Howard's mental acuity with a series of questions. They have to stop in Russia's far eastern city of Yakutsk for fuel, but are in complete awe of the jagged beautiful mountains where both the sun and the moon appear at the same time. They're soon back in the air when, suddenly, Tom Thurlow screams.

All turn to see that the mountains are right in front of them. Howard pulls back on the controls, but the way down with fuel playing climbs slowly. A deadly collision with hard granite looks all but certain until the last moment as they clear the mountain by a mere 20 feet. They're so close, Richard Stoddard is able to make out the individual rocks they've narrowly avoided. Now riding high on adrenaline, the crew flies with the ease to Fairbanks, Alaska, the same place that took the lives of fellow world circumnavigator Wiley Post and famed humorist Will Rogers just a few years ago. They have to dodge Manitoba's

bad weather, leading to an unplanned stop in Minneapolis. But finally, it's time to return to New York. On July 14, 1938, Howard prepares to put the plane down, only to see an excited crowd of 20,000 people below. That looks like a headache. He opts to purposely overshoot his landing strip and land on the other side of the airport. He opts to purposely overshoot his landing strip and land on the other side of the airport. It does little good. The people come charging. Howard and his trusty New York World's Fair 1939 have done it. In just three days, 19 hours, and eight minutes and ten seconds, the famed Hollywood flyboy

has flown around the world. From the innovations of the Wright brothers, Glenn Curtis and William Boeing, to aviation's growing usefulness, first in war, then in delivering the mail, and finally in transporting passengers, to the daring pilots who embodied the idea that the sky's the limit, be that in a dogfight, barnstorming,

crossing the Atlantic or circumnavigating the globe. Aviation grew from a curious new achievement to a crucial part of American life across the 20th century's first few decades. Risking it all, some pilots also ended up sacrificing it all. Rest in peace, Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan. Others like Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes were rewarded with fame and glory, even if their later controversies and eccentricities will complicate their legacies. But those are stories for another time. For now, the key thing is this.

War-waging, mail-delivering, and passenger-carrying aviation has changed both the United States and the world. And those changes will only become more important in the following decade as we enter the Second World War. Indeed, while we've spent the last 30 episodes roaring through the 1920s and enduring the Great Depression, as we've faced down a resurgent Ku Klux Klan, smuggled booze, met gangsters, witnessed labor wars, and pushed engineering to new depths and heights, ranging from dams to bridges to skyscrapers, authoritarian militaristic rulers of varying political persuasions have risen across the globe.

I'm talking about Italy, Germany, Soviet Russia, and Imperial Japan. In coming episodes, we'll hear all these nations into war period stories as we trod the path to the most catastrophic, life-destroying war humanity has ever seen. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Navarro Jackson and Will Iceman Keen. Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit https.podcast.com.

to you. Lane, Bob Stinnett, Brad Davidson, Bronwyn Cohen, Bruce Hibbert, Carissa Sedlak, Charlie Mages, Chloe Tripp, Christopher Merchant, Christopher Pullman, Dan Gee, David Rifkin, Durante Spencer, Donald Moore, Ellen Stewart, Elizabeth Christiansen, El Chiviado, Ernie Lowmaster, G2303, George J. Sherwood, Henry Brunjes, Polly Hamilton, Jake Gilbreth, James Bledsoe, Janie McCreary, Jeff Marks, Jessica Poppett, Joe Dobes, John Booby, John Frugal-Dougal, John Oliveros, John Ridlewicz, John Schaeffer, Jonathan Turrell, Jordan Corbett, Joshua Steiner, Justin M. Spriggs, Justin May, K, Kim R, Kim Reniger, Kristen Pratt, Kyle Decker, L. Paul Goinger, Lawrence Neubauer, Linda Cunningham, Matt Siegel, Melanie Jan, Nate Secunder, Nick Cafferell, Noah Hoff, Owen W. Sedlec, Rhys Humphreys

Wadsworth, Rick Brown, Robert Drazovich, Sarah Trewick, Sharon Thiesen, Sean Baines, Stacey Ritter, Stephen Williams, The Creepy Girl, Thomas Sabbath, Zach Breen, and Zach Jackson. Join me in two weeks. I'd like to tell you a story.