The Trouble With Planes

I became fascinated with airplanes when I was very young.  Not in the typical fashion that boys do-memorizing parts and models and what not.  I fell in love with the fantasy that planes represent.  People who travel on planes get to go somewhere.  It doesn't matter where just as long as there is a 'where' instead of a 'here.' 

My parents boarded a plane when I was ten.  They took off for Atlanta, Georgia.  What an incredible place Atlanta, Georgia must be, I thought.  Airplanes go there.  Oh, how I wished I could go there too.  "Please!" I begged.  But it wasn't to be.  The trip was business for my mother.  My father went along because my parents hadn't been away together since my brother was born fifteen years earlier.  Instead, he and I were stuck 'here' with a sleep over babysitter.

There would be six more years of waiting and fantasizing before I took my first bona fide plane ride.  I did ride in a small Cessna 150-about 20 miles or so-when I was twelve, but that really didn't count.  There was no jet way and no exotic destination waiting at the end of the ride.  I went from one small municipal airport to another. 

My first real ride came when my parents won a free vacation at a Florida resort, including plane tickets for the entire family.  I didn't sleep the night before.  I visualized walking down the jet way where I would disappear into a waiting adventure.  Me.  I was going where the lucky and privileged people went.  I was on top of the world.

The take off was spine-tingling.  We shot straight up and zoomed toward Florida.  The force of the large metal bird lunging high into the air pressed me back into my seat.  It was the biggest rush I had ever experienced.  I kept thinking "I'm on a plane!  I'm going to Florida!  This is so cool!"

As the plane began its decent a couple hours later, however, things became very green.  It was then that my parents and I discovered that I was susceptible to motion sickness.  Miraculously, I survived-although I did make use of more than one barf bag before landing.  I was hooked.

Over the next twenty years and two hundred fifty thousand miles, my love of flying didn't diminish.  It didn't matter if it was a business trip to London or New York, or a pleasure trip with the family to Chicago or Orlando.  The night before each trip I was restless and excited.  The next morning I was up early, eagerly awaiting my adventure.

My children-being my children-also developed the same love of flying and accompanied me at every opportunity.  I started each at an early age, eight months for my youngest.  Part was necessity as my career had moved us away from their grandparents.  And, part was due to the fact that, unlike the early years with my parents, we were in a financial position to afford it. 

I remember one trip vividly.  I was returning from New York when nearly everything that could go wrong, without the plane actually crashing, did.  We hit horrible turbulence over north east Pennsylvania.  The plane danced so much that the flight attendants were ordered to their seats.  And this was before the days of union lawsuits and increased safety precautions-it wasn't standard procedure. 

We hit a huge air pocket and lost altitude.  After what seemed to be an eternity, the plane stabilized.  Some passengers became sick, others sobbed hysterically.  About twenty minutes later, it happened again, only worse.  This time, the oxygen masks dropped.  The pilot announced over the loud speaker that we were changing course.  It was a welcome message.

An hour or so later, a man five aisles in front of me pressed the flight attendant button.  He pointed out the window and indicated that the engine on the right wing was making a grinding noise and shooting sparks.  The passengers went silent.  The color drained from the flight attendant's face and she hurried toward the cockpit.

The pilot came over the loud speaker again and asked us not to panic.  He said we needed to land at a nearby airport, about thirty minutes away.  It took two attempts because the gear didn't fully extend on our first approach.  I drew a deep breath and said a prayer. The wheels chirped as they met the runway.  We were back on the ground. 

A week later I was restless and excited again as I prepared for another trip.

Today, however, is different.  I didn't sleep last night, but it wasn't due to my usual pre-flight excitement.  This trip is one I do not want to make.  I've spent the past two weeks at Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany visiting my husband.  His platoon was guarding a disaster response convoy on its way to put out an oil fire in the Middle East.  A homicide bomber ambushed them.  My husband was one of the very few who wasn't killed instantly. 

Today, I'm coming home.  Alone.  The military transport left with his body three hours ago.  It will land at the military base about 40 miles north of our home and await my arrival from the public airport. 

As I board the plan I can still hear my youngest son asking why someone who didn't know his daddy decided to kill him.  He's not yet old enough to understand what happened.  I wish I wasn't either.  I dread walking off the plane to my children's heart-broken faces.  I dread seeing my mother-in-law who is now the sole survivor of her immediate family.  I dread the emotionally wrenching events that will take place over the next two weeks as I bury my husband and my children say good-bye to their father.  But most of all, right now, I dread the silence and the inevitability of this plane ride home.

The End