Fly

My Uncle Walt flew small planes. He was building one in his workshop/garage, I was there the day they put up the walls. He'd done all he could in his basement. I was small, I was fascinated. I told teachers I wanted to become a pilot. He promised me he would take me flying when I was older, and not so prone to motion sickness. He would have a heart attack and be grounded before he could make good on that promise, and another one would get him before he finished the plane. I grieved for him when he died, I was 19. The eight year old in me grieved for the broken promise. I wanted to fly.

My brother was in the Air Force, stationed in Phoenix when I was ten, and he and his wife wanted me to come visit, for three weeks. Which seemed a very long time to me then. On the way to the airport, my father and the truck ignored stop signs at a four way stop, crash. No serious injuries, and they got me onto the plane, for an eight hour flight. Happy to be away, I was bewildered by the feeling of lifting off, it was not quite what I expected. The clouds were astonishing, I took a roll of film of clouds, none of which turned out like they looked. I wore an uncomfortable blue dress that my mother made for me, and insisted I wear, as appropriate traveling clothes. I was bored and lonely, since the middle aged man beside me had no interest in chatting. I stared out the window, listening to the repeated music programs, Free To Be You And Me! My first time flying.

Once, we took a helicopter flight over Niagara Falls, - amazing. In a rare moment of well placed generosity, my father insisted we all go, getting my mother to come along. Very loud, thrilling, and a unique view of the Falls. The best time of our many trips there.

I would fly many times again, in big commercial jets, at the behest of the US Army, to and from Basic in New Jersey (an emptying experience recorded in Emesis) to San Antonio, Seattle, Kansas, Salt Lake, Saudi Arabia. All those flights miraculously arrived at 0dark30. A daylight pleasure flight involved going on a refueling mission for a KC-135 over Iraq. Which was strange and cold, and one of the jet pilots waggled his eyebrows at me. No shit.

On my own I flew to Detroit, Sacramento, San Fransisco, San Diego, Las Angeles, to reconnect with friends or family. The last flight home to Boston was a red eye nightmare. I think it finally killed my love of flying. As though the other difficult flights had not already done it. We moved to Boston via Amtrak mostly due to our joint loathing for flying. Too many cramped seats, too much nausea, bad food, colds afterward.

Before the disillusionment, I would go up in a small plane. Rob was my consoler right after my divorce, a kind, intelligent and gracious man who treated me as valuable. He flew me out high over the Salt Lake valley one evening, redeeming the promise, and healing many wounds. We were not right for each other, and he broke up with me before I was sent to Gulf War I- which took nerve -especially as he let me rage at him, took responsibility with great hearted equanimity. For all of this, he to this day is in my prayers of hope and thanks, for his honesty, integrity, and as an example of what caliber of man I was worthy of, but also for taking me flying, redeeming my Uncle's long ago promise. Bless his big cotton socks. And his small plane.