Shirley Moore

Shirley A. Moore, 94, passed away September 3, 2016, at home in North Little Rock, Arkansas. She was born in Springdale, Arkansas, July 5, 1922, to Samuel Frederick Moore and Anna Electa "Georgeanne" (Engels) Moore.

Widow of Lt.Col. Noel Moore, she is survived by her sister, Joanne Naifeh of Tulsa, Oklahoma; children Diane (Paul) Alexander of North Little Rock, AR, Cheryl Moore of Fort Worth, David (Kaye) Moore of Crowley, Texas, Teresa (Don) Raffaele; six grandchildren, Kristin (Istvan) Szalay, Paul (Alice) Alexander, Noel (Jessica) Alexander, Whitney Moore, Emalyn Michals, and Mason Michals; five great grandchildren, Gabriel Szalay, J.D. Szalay, Emma Alexander, Amelia Alexander, and Samuel Alexander; nieces and nephews Jean Anne Roberts, Sheila Naifeh, Jamie Naifeh, Karen Harmon, Terri née Moore , Kip Moore, and Kirk Moore; great nieces and nephews Zack Roberts, Josh Roberts, and Lexy Harmon.

Shirley had an adventurous, curious spirit. She became a private pilot and served in the Civil Air Patrol before enlisting in the United States Army during World War II. She was assigned to Love Field in Dallas, TX, as a Link Trainer Instructor.

After WWII, Shirley attended the University of Tulsa, graduating with a Bachelor's degree in 1952. She had married Noel Moore January 1, 1948, and by the time they graduated together in 1952, they had the first three of their four children. Noel was called back to the Air Force and Shirley began the life of military wife. Assignments would take the family to Japan, Okinawa, and England. After his retirement, in the early '70s, they lived in Tehran, Iran.

In every country, Shirley created a welcoming home for family and old and new friends. Friendships established in overseas assignments were life-long. Whether hiking a centuries old caravanserai trail, climbing a ski slope at Mount Fuji, or attending Queen Elizabeth's Trooping the Colour, Shirley enjoyed life and shared that joy with us. She loved her family dearly, and we will miss her.

From Shirley's personal journal, circa 1943...

The log entry at the end of the day read, "navigational exercise, practice maneuvers" ...totally inadequate. Perhaps the dulling of the senses on returning to ground, or my reluctance to share even with that piece of paper, but there was no way the log book could come close to reporting the experience of that afternoon's flight.

It had become routine at the end of the working day for me to head for the airport as often as my budget would allow. My solo flight was long behind me, my license check was still many hours of flying ahead of me. I had acquired an easy attitude and rapport with the plane. I hadn't decided what I would practice today. I was getting a little bored with stalls and spins, there was no time that evening for a cross-country, figure eights and pylon turns were boring. It was a beautiful evening with plenty of daylight left. White fluffy clouds ringed the horizon accentuating the clear blue of the sky. As I finished the take-off pattern and set out for open sky I still hadn't decided which maneuvers I'd practice. Those piles of clouds seemed closer now like huge snowbanks with the sun sparkling off them. The plane was humming with an almost hypnotizing soothing rhythm. The tensions of the work day were evaporating as silently as the dew on a soft spring morning. How immense were those towers of cumulus! I was still climbing and they seemed close enough to touch. Plenty of clear blue between those towers of pure white fluff, not a shade of grey to indicate any weather problem; the clouds beckoned and I knew what I was going to do with my evening flight. Right through that big window I went. There was no FAA rule against flying higher than the clouds, just don't get too close or let them close in on you. After all, this isn't an instrument plane, this is strictly line-of-sight, seat-of-the-pants flying. I love it. Now I can see the clouds drifting below me, little feathery things that hide nothing. The landscape is still there, the river, the roads and highways, the clusters of houses and farms. The landscape begins to give way to pure white, now the clouds are thicker under me but there's nothing to worry about, there are still plenty of open spaces. I never knew clouds could be so glorious! In the distance are still towers of clouds but beneath my wings the carpet of cloud is as welcoming and comforting as white plush on a bedroom floor. Now there is no intrusion from below, only the humming of the plane, me, the blue of the sky, the bright whiteness of the clouds, and the utter silence. Silence and space. This is space with an entirely new meaning. There is no end to it, there is no ceiling, the ceiling of clouds is beneath me and beyond is forever with no boundary. I am no longer a part of planet Earth. I've slipped free.

Something below me in the white fluff of my cloud carpet catches my eye. It's a thin arc of luminescent color. A cloud wisp interrupts the color for a space and there it is again, brighter this time. It's a rainbow! A perfect, lovely, beautiful rainbow. Pink, violet, blue, green, yellow, one color blends with the next. I seem to be sitting in a circle of rainbow. The arc is to my right, ahead, and to my left. I can't find the end, the arc goes as far as I can see, not over me as it would from earth, but around me!

It's enough to take away all sense of reality.

There's just me and the rainbow. Add to that a feeling that I could loop, twirl, dance, and spin with no sense of containment or constriction or danger.

I feel I'd like to stay for hours dancing between the feathers of the clouds but some sense tells me I'm experiencing the same sensations as deep-sea divers so I'd better regain my earthly common sense before those clouds close beneath me.

Here I am again below the clouds, full compliance with FAA regs, eye contact with familiar landmarks. The elation diminishes but never to disappear. This was my gift of a bit of magic. Just mine, to share or treasure as I choose or am able to find the words.

High Flight
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds -
and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of -
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hovering there I've chased the shouting wind along
and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.

"Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God.

By John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
(A sonnet written by John Gillespie Magee, an American pilot with the
Royal Canadian Air Force in the Second World War. He came to Britain,
flew in a Spitfire squadron, and was killed at the age of nineteen on
11 December 1941 during a training flight from the airfield near
Scopwick.)