plz i need it urgent
speech on making a difference
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hey there,
I noted that, during a number of different times in our history as a species, there has been a synergistic confluence of events in which people of vision, courage, and persistence have been able to accomplish some amazing things in a way that clearly captured the attention and the support of the general public. Today I’d like to talk about another such individual. This one was born 111 years ago this week, on February 4, 1902, in Detroit, Michigan. He was an only child, and his father, who was a Swedish immigrant, went on to become a member of Congress. His mother was a high school chemistry teacher. After attending over a dozen different schools during his youth, he enrolled in the College of Engineering at the University of Wisconsin, but ended up dropping out in the middle of his sophomore year.
Having become enamored with the idea of being a pilot, he took a few flying lessons and then worked as a wing walker, a parachutist, and a mechanic to pay for additional instruction. He ended up buying a World War I surplus Jenny biplane for $500 even before he had been signed off to solo. After several months of barnstorming around the country, he completed a year of military flight training with the United States Army Air Service, thereby earning his Army pilot’s wings and a commission as a 2 Lieutenant in the Reserves.
In October of 1925, he was hired by the Robertson Aircraft Corporation as the chief pilot for Contract Air Mail Route #2 to provide service between St. Louis and Chicago, with intermediate stops in Springfield and Peoria. To give you a sense for the state of aviation in those days, during the 10 month period in which he was actually flying the mail, he twice had to bail out of his aircraft due to bad weather, equipment problems, and/or running out of gas. Both instances took place at night as he was approaching Chicago. As an indication of how seriously he took the responsibilities of his job, after safely parachuting to the ground, the first thing he did was to locate the wreckage of his airplane, salvage the bags of mail, and make sure that they were put on a truck or a train to Chicago as quickly as possible.
By now, I suspect that you have figured out that our mystery aviator was none other than Charles Lindbergh. So what was it that transformed him from a talented but unremarkable airmail pilot to an international aviation icon? Well, certainly a key in that transformation was something called the Orteig Prize, a $25,000 prize that was offered by Raymond Orteig, a New York hotel owner, to the pilot of the first successful nonstop flight in either direction between New York City and Paris. According to the rules, the flight had to be accomplished within five years of the initial prize announcement in May of 1919. When the five-year deadline came and went with no serious contenders, Orteig decided to extend the prize for an additional five years. This time, it attracted a lot of interest, and a lot of attention, from several highly experienced, well-financed competitors.
And then there was our 25-year-old airmail pilot, who, with a $15,000 bank loan, a $1,000 donation from his employer, and about $2,000 from his personal savings, arranged for the construction of a fabric-covered, single-seat, single-engine high-wing monoplane, which he named the Spirit of St. Louis.
You know how the story turned out, with the heavily-loaded aircraft barely making it off the muddy, rain-soaked runway in New York, and with Lindbergh spending the next 33.5 hours fighting fatigue, icing, and fog, and navigating by the stars (when he could see them), but eventually landing successfully in Paris, where he was greeted by 150,000 spectators, who reportedly stormed the field, dragged Lindberg out of the cockpit, and then carried him around on their shoulders for about half an hour. Lindbergh finally had to be “rescued” from the crowd by a group of French military fliers, soldiers, and police.
As I work with the many talented and highly motivated folks in our industry, as I listen to the plans that you have, and the work that you are doing, it occurs to me that there are a number of people in this room here today who are also demonstrating their vision, their courage, and their persistence, and who are accomplishing some amazing things. Without a doubt, you too are making a difference.
But what I find truly exciting is that we seem to be reaching a critical mass right now in commercial space transportation, that the pace of progress seems to be accelerating, and that we appear to be on the threshold of some truly transformational changes in our nation’s space program.
We really appreciate both your attendance, and your active participation
thankyou
thnks a lot!!
:)
I noted that, during a number of different times in our history as a species, there has been a synergistic confluence of events in which people of vision, courage, and persistence have been able to accomplish some amazing things in a way that clearly captured the attention and the support of the general public. Today I’d like to talk about another such individual. This one was born 111 years ago this week, on February 4, 1902, in Detroit, Michigan. He was an only child, and his father, who was a Swedish immigrant, went on to become a member of Congress. His mother was a high school chemistry teacher. After attending over a dozen different schools during his youth, he enrolled in the College of Engineering at the University of Wisconsin, but ended up dropping out in the middle of his sophomore year.
Having become enamored with the idea of being a pilot, he took a few flying lessons and then worked as a wing walker, a parachutist, and a mechanic to pay for additional instruction. He ended up buying a World War I surplus Jenny biplane for $500 even before he had been signed off to solo. After several months of barnstorming around the country, he completed a year of military flight training with the United States Army Air Service, thereby earning his Army pilot’s wings and a commission as a 2 Lieutenant in the Reserves.
In October of 1925, he was hired by the Robertson Aircraft Corporation as the chief pilot for Contract Air Mail Route #2 to provide service between St. Louis and Chicago, with intermediate stops in Springfield and Peoria. To give you a sense for the state of aviation in those days, during the 10 month period in which he was actually flying the mail, he twice had to bail out of his aircraft due to bad weather, equipment problems, and/or running out of gas. Both instances took place at night as he was approaching Chicago. As an indication of how seriously he took the responsibilities of his job, after safely parachuting to the ground, the first thing he did was to locate the wreckage of his airplane, salvage the bags of mail, and make sure that they were put on a truck or a train to Chicago as quickly as possible.
By now, I suspect that you have figured out that our mystery aviator was none other than Charles Lindbergh. So what was it that transformed him from a talented but unremarkable airmail pilot to an international aviation icon? Well, certainly a key in that transformation was something called the Orteig Prize, a $25,000 prize that was offered by Raymond Orteig, a New York hotel owner, to the pilot of the first successful nonstop flight in either direction between New York City and Paris. According to the rules, the flight had to be accomplished within five years of the initial prize announcement in May of 1919. When the five-year deadline came and went with no serious contenders, Orteig decided to extend the prize for an additional five years. This time, it attracted a lot of interest, and a lot of attention, from several highly experienced, well-financed competitors.
And then there was our 25-year-old airmail pilot, who, with a $15,000 bank loan, a $1,000 donation from his employer, and about $2,000 from his personal savings, arranged for the construction of a fabric-covered, single-seat, single-engine high-wing monoplane, which he named the Spirit of St. Louis.
You know how the story turned out, with the heavily-loaded aircraft barely making it off the muddy, rain-soaked runway in New York, and with Lindbergh spending the next 33.5 hours fighting fatigue, icing, and fog, and navigating by the stars (when he could see them), but eventually landing successfully in Paris, where he was greeted by 150,000 spectators, who reportedly stormed the field, dragged Lindberg out of the cockpit, and then carried him around on their shoulders for about half an hour. Lindbergh finally had to be “rescued” from the crowd by a group of French military fliers, soldiers, and police.
As I work with the many talented and highly motivated folks in our industry, as I listen to the plans that you have, and the work that you are doing, it occurs to me that there are a number of people in this room here today who are also demonstrating their vision, their courage, and their persistence, and who are accomplishing some amazing things. Without a doubt, you too are making a difference.
But what I find truly exciting is that we seem to be reaching a critical mass right now in commercial space transportation, that the pace of progress seems to be accelerating, and that we appear to be on the threshold of some truly transformational changes in our nation’s space program.
We really appreciate both your attendance, and your active participation
thankyou
thnks a lot!!
:)
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