“I’m Brigadier General Lucas Voland,” the man continued as Father shook his hand. “This is my wife, Grace, and these are our daughters, Lydia and Kathryn.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Father said. “I’m very aware of your service to our country.” He made introductions and then said to Mother, “The general was an important flying instructor during the war and helped to create the United States Army Air Corps. If I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Voland was also an aviator and was the first woman to make a transcontinental flight.”
“Your memory serves you well,” Mrs. Voland said.
“Won’t you sit with us?” Mother asked.
As Father and the general continued to speak, Mrs. Voland and her daughters took the empty seats next to me. After they were settled, Mrs. Voland said, “I’ve heard you recently came from France, Miss Baldwin. My husband is from Paris, and my sister, Hope, was the first woman to fly from England to France over the English Channel in 1912. We’ve visited several times, and I never tire of the beauty of the country.”
“It was my first time,” I told her, amazed at the daring feats she and her sister had undertaken for aviation. No wonder she was standing on the stage with us. “I thought it was lovely.”
“My daughters haven’t been there yet,” she said as she looked at Lydia and Kathryn. “But I long to take them to their father’s home country.”
“I’ve been there, Mama,” the younger daughter, Kathryn, said as she stared up at her mother. “With Austen’s family.”
Mrs. Voland nodded and then put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder before saying, “Of course. How could I forget?”
Kathryn smiled, revealing identical dimples in each cheek. She was a beautiful little girl with a charming twinkle in her brown eyes.
How could Mrs. Voland forget that her daughter had been toFrance? I turned to the older daughter, assuming she had been there, as well. “And what about you?” I asked Lydia. “What is your favorite thing to see in France?”
“I haven’t been there,” she said, an equally delightful smile on her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed.”
Mrs. Voland only smiled.
The United States Marine Band began to play “Hail to the Chief” as a cavalcade of dark vehicles arrived with President and Mrs. Coolidge.
Everyone stood and cheered at their arrival, and Mrs. Voland looked relieved to end our conversation.
The president and his wife stepped out of their vehicle with Secret Service men positioned all around. They walked up the steps to the stage and joined the dozens of dignitaries and their guests who had been invited to attend.
Father stood a little straighter as the president walked up to him and shook his hand, thanking him for coming before moving on to the next dignitary and finally making his way to the front of the stage where General Voland stood.
The band finished playing “Hail to the Chief” and began another rousing song to keep everyone’s attention occupied until Lindbergh arrived.
A brilliant blue sky stretched over Washington, DC, without a cloud in sight. It was warm, but not overly hot, and a gentle wind fluttered the hem of my dress. I took a deep breath, thinking about where I was standing—my place in history. How different this life was from the other one I led. How strange that tonight I would go to sleep, and tomorrow I would wake up on a British merchant ship, bound for Nassau, surrounded by rough sailors, squealing pigs, endless waves, and sunburn.
As much as I hated the expectations and pressure Father’s position brought into my life, I couldn’t deny some of the privileges it afforded. Even being in Paris and meeting Ernest Hemingway—though that was more of Irene’s doing.
Thinking of that night made my pulse race. I prayed no one would ever know.
A commotion caught my eye as Lindbergh’s parade of vehicles approached. Thousands of people followed from the naval yard where he had arrived with his airplane,The Spirit of St. Louis, on a battleship. They were on every available surface for as far as I could see. In trees, on the tops of cars and buildings, all of them trying to press closer.
Finally, Lindbergh and his mother exited their vehicle and approached the stage. The crowd went wild with cheers, applause, and shouting. A woman fainted near the front of the crowd, and several people bent down to help her up.
Lindbergh was a tall, handsome, shy fellow. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment as he shook people’s hands. His popularity was due, in part, to the innocence he portrayed in a world fraught with gangsters, crime, and danger.
A world my father was trying to reform—and my brothers had embraced.
When Lindbergh came toward us, Father reached out his hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Lindbergh. I’m Reverend Daniel Baldwin.”
Lindbergh shook Father’s hand and nodded, a congenial smile on his face. “How do you do?”
“I’m from Minneapolis,” Father continued quickly, no doubt conscious of all the others who wanted to speak to the aviator.
That caused Lindbergh to pause and take a closer look at Father. “It’s nice to see someone from back home. I’m from Little Falls.”
