In the early 1930’s, William E. Boeing hired my father, a young self-taught pilot from Oregon, to fabricate in Renton, single engine, two seat, bi-wing trainers, called the Kaydet, for the Army Air Corps.
In the late ‘30’s and into WWII, his production progressed to bombers, such as the B-17 Flying Fortress, the B-29 Super Fortress, and after the war ended, the B-47 Stratojet and the B-52 Stratofortress. In the early 50’s he joined the Dash 80 production program, which became known as the 707. We were a Boeing family, privileged to live south of Bellevue on the eastern shore of Lake Washington, in the most prestigious and exclusive private community of Beaux Arts Village.
My father built a speed boat, larger, faster and more powerful than the Coronados docked in Medina, and we flew our V-tailed Beechcraft Bonanza from the old airport. One sunny day in the late spring of 1958, my mother announced that Bill Boeing Jr. was bringing some guests to dinner at our house.
If us kids were good, we would get to meet a new local hero, who had become Bill’s private pilot, test pilot and the Miss Wahoo hydroplane driver. Mira Slovak had flown his family in a DC-3 to safety from Budapest to Europe in 1956, during the Hungarian revolution. In the early evening a string of black Cadillacs parked next to our house. They were all driven by men with dark suits and sunglasses. Our mother told us that these men were going to wait by their cars and we would have to take them dinner of slumgullion, strawberries and soda pop (Nehi) on paper plates, since she didn’t have enough flatware for everyone. Two of the guests were brothers named Big Ike and Little Ike. Edgar, the older brother, was a prominent Tacoma attorney and when he introduced me to his younger brother, my father said that the hand I was shaking was the President of the United States. Dwight David Eisenhower’s grin was broad and grandfatherly.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw a terrible sadness. For years I have wondered what his eyes had seen, what his ears had heard, what words he had spoken and what plans he had to make. There will never again be the likes of the man we called Ike. Later that special day, when I couldn’t remember what the President had said to me, Dad laughed and said, he told you, “I’d like to help you son, but you’re too young to vote.”
Happy Fathers’ Day, Lloyd Duerst and Ike.
Eric Duerst
Toledo
