From: robie@umbc4.umbc.edu (Mr. William Robie; POSI (GRAD))
Subject: Aviation's Smallest Giant Has Gone West
Organization: Univ. of MD, Baltimore County
Date: Sat, 26 Sep 1992 05:02:02 GMT

I got a call from a friend at NASM yesterday and was informed that
Paul E. Garber passed away early the previous morning.  He was 92
years old at his death, and the youngest of the surviving Early
Birds (flew before December 17, 1916).  Members of this unique 
organization could always be identified at airshows because of their
distinctive black and white-checked caps -- copies of a style of
golfing cap that was very popular among pre-WWI flyers.  Garber
wore his at most outdoor events -- especially the annual kite-flying
competitions that he helped to sponsor.

Even those who never heard of Garber know of his work.  He is largely
responsible for the existence of the National Air & Space Museum, and
was the force behind the museum's acquisition of many of their aircraft.
He has been honored in countless ways -- from recipient of the prestigious
Brewer Trophy for aerospace education to having an asteroid and NASM's
restoration facility in Silver Hill, Md., named after him.  If there
was an aviation luminary, she or he doubtless knew Garber -- Lindbergh,
Wright, Earhart, Byrd, Boeing, Martin, Douglas, Hughes ... all of them
knew this diminuitive curator of America's flying heritage (he was about
5'4").

I was fortunate to have been acquainted with him for the last decade of
his life -- more fortunate, still, to have spent much of one summer working
on one of his pet projects (that he could no longer manage) and trying to
convince him that he ought to let me record our frequent conversations
(he wouldn't do it, but I took notes at home each evening).  I last saw
him about two weeks ago.  He was at the Air & Space Museum, tending to some
of his business (he went to work, as Ramsey Fellow of the Museum, almost
every day until about age 91, then slowed down to 3 - 4 days a week).  Mr.
Garber was in a wheelchair that last time I saw him, but he appeared quite
chipper.  One of the two "young" women whom he was blessed to have as
volunteer assistants was taking very good care of him, and he obviously
enjoyed the attention that he was getting.  He had been a very active man, 
driving his car until a few months ago, and taking "the old folks" -- friends
of his some 20 years his junior -- shopping, etc..  A couple of days ago
one of his volunteer assistants dropped in on him at home and found that
he was not doing very well.  She took him to the hospital, where they
said that he was dehydrated.  It appeared that he was fast recovering, but
his heart simply quit in the middle of the night.  How wonderful that
such a man did not suffer. 

Early in our relationship we discovered a mutual appreciation of poetry and,
after one long visit in which he opened his heart to me about the loss of
"Buttons," his wife of many years, I wrote a poem for him.  I did not
know at the time that letters from Mr. Garber were exceedingly rare things
(he spent close to 3 months answering a letter from George Bush), but was
still quite pleased to receive a response from him a few days later.  In
that letter he said "I have read it [the poem] several times, always with
reverence and appreciation ... I offer the compliment that I wish she could
be here as you recite it, and I echo it."  Let me explain briefly that
Buttons earned her nickname when, as a young woman, she sewed a shirt button
on for Garber at their first meeting (it came off just before he was to
speak to a group of aviators).  Garber showed me how she used to hide little
notes of affection in his pockets -- where he would find them throughout the 
day -- and always "signed" them with a simple drawing of a button.

As a small memorial to this great man, please allow me to share with you
the poem that I wrote about five years ago:

The Man Who Loved Buttons

He taught me much, this friend I knew,
Of brave and noble men who flew,
In bamboo ships and silken spheres,
And walked as ones who had no peers,
Through those first fragile, frightening, years,
Of God's gift -- human flight.

Who was your inspiration, Sir,
Was it the Brothers Wright?


Or was it Mr. Lilienthal,
Who gave so much before his fall,
And as, on crumpled wings he lay,
In quiet voice was heard to say,
That, "sacrificies must be made."
Was he the one who gave to us,

More than the mere machines --
The soul of Father Icarus?
    ^^^^

He looked at me with patience, then,
From 'top his desk he took a pen,
And with a bit of paper drew,
A circle.  Next (in ink of blue),
Four holes he marked, where they went through,
The center of the ring.

He saw I didn't comprehend,
The meaning of the thing.


"Of all the wonders in the world,
That flapped and flew and swept and swirled,
Or soared or swooped at end of string,
There only was one precious thing,
That took my heart above where wing,
Of man or bird could fly.

A Button captured all my heart --
My life, my love, my eye."


"It's well you see them with respect,
Those men and women who, with checked
Caps turned about or cast awry,
Looked aloft with wary eye,
Then hurled their bodies toward the sky.
But never them revere.

Instead, a love like Buttons,
In your heart, alone, hold dear."

He smiled at me and gave a wink,
(to hold back one more tear, I think)
Then bid me well with outstretched hand,
And never will before me stand,
A kinder, gentler, giant man.



Fly high in eternity, Mr. Garber, you will be sadly missed.




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