Decade saw death of parachutist and Clinton Woolsey.

Before the advent of television, entertainment took different forms.
One of them was the “airshow.”

The old airshows weren’t like today’s Blue Angels, utilizing multi-million jet aircraft, although acrobatics were standard bill-of-fare.

These were typically rather small operations that could make money on rather small, rural audiences. Audiences that could be found at almost any country fair.
Such as Empire.

In 1920, fairgoers at Empire were able to watch, for their entertainment, a daring parachute jump by 27-year-old Deborah DeCostello.

It was the last jump of her short career.

The wind carried her out above Lake Michigan, over which she descended and then drowned.
Costello’s body was later found under the North Pier at Empire. She was buried in St. Phillip Neri cemetery in the village.

The general public’s interest in aviation grew steadily in the 1920s. Prizes were offered for flights such as Charles Lindbergh’s, who flew the Atlantic solo in 1927.

Barnstormers were airborne “Evel Kneivels” who thrilled audiences with their performances, but military pilots were prohibited from engaging in such “reckless” acts.

Regulations for aircraft operation were issued by the U.S. War Department, and a few dozen such that commenced in January 1920 seem rather quaint today, 87 years later.

They read, in fact, like a David Letterman “Top Ten” list. Here are a few examples, counting down:

7. Riding on the steps, wings, or tail of a machine is prohibited.

6. Pilots should carry hankies in a handy position to wipe off goggles.

5. Never get out of a machine with the motor running until the pilot relieving you can reach the engine controls.

4. In taking off, look at the ground and the air.

3. Don’t turn sharply when taxiing. Instead of turning sharp, have someone lift the tail around.

2. Never leave the ground with the motor leaking.

1. Don’t take the machine into the air unless you are satisfied it will fly.

One of the pilots to whom these regulations would have applied was Clinton Woosley of Northport.

Young Woolsey was part of a group of American aviators chosen to participate on a “Good Will Flight” to South America in 1926. Unfortunately, Woolsey’s plane crashed, and he and his co-pilot were killed.

To honor his son, Bryon Woolsey donated 80 acres for an airport. To this property, 120 acres were added “by the people of Leelanau Township,” the Enterprise reported in its edition of July 11, 1935.

The Clinton F. Woolsey Memorial Airport was formally dedicated on July 14, 1935.

“The tract of land which has been converted into a fine airport, was dedicated by Bryon Woolsey, father of the captain. Eighty acres of this land is from the old Woolsey homestead and fronts on Woolsey Lake, one of nature’s beauty spots,” the July 11 newspaper reported. “The highway here is skirted by a unique park, splendid at this season with a gorgeous display of flowers of all colors. The work on the park and gardens was done by Mr. Woolsey, who is now 84 years old.”

The airport was already in use prior to the official dedication. On May 30, 1935, the Enterprise reported that, “as a preliminary dedication to the Northport airport, a number of U.S. Army planes will be there next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

“Camp will be established at the Traverse City fairgrounds (then located at Front and Garfield streets) and each day the planes will fly to Northport and put on exhibitions of army airplane maneuvers and anti-airplane gun practice.”

In the “Roaring Twenties” and depressed 1930s, air-borne activity commanded the same type of interest that astronauts and voyages to the moon would several decades later.

The most acclaimed flight was Lindbergh’s from New York to Paris in The Spirit of St. Louis. His Ryan monoplane was literally built around a massive gas tank, and Lindbergh needed a periscope to look forward over the wing.

Laden with 448 gallons of gasoline and 48 gallons of oil, the single-engine airplane barely got off the ground. Lindbergh’s navigation was of the most rudimentary sort – when he reached the Seine River in France, he simply flew above the water until he reached Paris.

“Never has there been anything so courageous, so gallant, so dauntless” was the wording used to promote a book contemporary with the feat by Richard Beamish, who wrote The Story of Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle.

Lindbergh’s mother was a teacher in Detroit and, following his claim to enduring fame, he was invited to special events around the state, including Leelanau, but apparently never came here.

He doubtless was invited to more events than any one person could possibly ever attend – if he was so inclined.

And today, the “Roaring Twenties” are just a fading memory.