Flying the Friendly Skies: My Rookie Flight

It's the little things in life that make us truly happy. Most of them seem silly and pedantic to others, yet they please us nonetheless. One such thrill occurs the third week of the month (more or less): I pull the mail out of the box and see that tantalizing glint of yellow gold, swathed in clear plastic, peeking out from the mass of mundane catalogs, bills and flyers. Yessss! My monthly National Geographic magazine has arrived.

I'm an addict, I relish my monthly "fix" of exotica. In days gone by, the magazine came in a brown paper wrapper like my uncle's Playboy, fueling the titillating anticipation of discovery. The excitement for me was and is strictly G-rated. Naked natives are the classic giggle line of late night comedians, but a true devotee sees these infrequent glimpses with cool, scientific detachment. I could always turn to Sports Illustrated's swim suit edition to scratch that itch, after all. For me, the allure of National Geographic lies in its ability to transport me to exotic locales and obscure destinations, far-flung lands of history and mystery. Just look at a sampling of this month's edition: Brazil, Transylvania and Mars. I would hunker down in my drab little room in our shabby, suburban tract home to travel the world, touching all seven continents, reaching the four corners of the Earth. Often, my cerebral globe-trekking would be rattled by the rumble of a jetliner on take-off from San Francisco International and I would wonder: Where is it going? When can I go? Where will I go?

My first time on an airplane occurred in 1958. My maternal grandfather was terminally ill. I was soon a two-and-a-half year-old lap baby on a prop plane to Missouri for Mom's last visit with her father. This is my earliest memory. I remember being in the front seat of a car driving up to an airport terminal, the wipers straining to brush snow off the windshield. My mother confirmed this memory with the fuller tale in later years.

As our somber assignment came to its close, an unseasonable snowstorm moved in on Springfield, Missouri. My father was home in California with my four older siblings, falling behind on his work at his one-man start-up glass business. Dad wanted mom home ASAP so that he could focus on his business instead of the fearsome foursome. Back in Missouri, the storm had stalled over Springfield, closing the airport. The staff in Springfield informed her that it could be days before a flight back to San Francisco could take off. However, Kansas City remained open and flights were taking off. If Mom cold make the 220 mile trip before dawn, she could be in San Francisco in time to make her husband the next evening's dinner. Now that was a goal.

A businessman in the same predicament stepped forward. "Lady, I need to get a flight out, too. Sounds like Kansas City is our exit plan. Would you like to share a rental car?" To my father's later distress, Mom was willing. This was a woman who moved to California on her own at 20,supporting herself through the war years as a "Winnie the Welder." Of course, she rounded up two more stranded businessmen for the safety of numbers and to share in the cost of gas. The drive was tense, she told me, which probably explains why I remember arrival scene at Kansas City's airport. But we made our flight.

When he heard about the car trip with strange men, Dad was as "outraged" as the police chief in Casablanca--yet he was relieved to unload those four screaming kids on his "chief cook and bottle-washer."  The bread-winner retreated to his shop after dinner, the home-maker was back in the kitchen "where she belonged." Their baby boy wouldn't see the inside of an airliner for nearly fifteen more years...

(to be continued)