Dad learned to fly in a Stearman when he joined the Army Air Corp as a young man. He went on to finish his time in the military flying F-84's. He loved to fly. My brother followed in his foot steps for a while in the Navy. Buzz, loved flying too, but hated carrier landings, so moved on to other fields of endeavor.
As a side note, dad says that he was charged with teaching the other recruits how to drive a truck or car. In those days he was one of the few who knew how. He was a farm kid so he had been driving anything and everything since he was a little guy.
He talks about towing targets for the other pilots, and later the fun of putting his F-84 on the deck and coming at our house, pulling up at the very last second. It would make mom plenty mad, us kids loved it.
He was always flying something and for the most part one or the other of us kids got to go along. I never felt anything but safe with him. He was always checking everything, once, twice... until he was sure that things were as right as they could be.
He only had me a touch concerned... one time. We flew the little cub up to hunt'n camp and spent a good time scouting for deer. There is no good place to land up there, most are not an option at all, unless you want to be there permanently. As I'm looking for deer, dad said "I need to check on something so we'll put her down on that knoll." That knoll was about the size of a tennis court... He did it with out a twitch. We hiked into camp, checked on what needed it, hiked back out to the little cub, and flew home.
He doesn't fly any more at 89, but he still has that look in his eyes.