In the Air. Left Hanging.

I remember my first airplane trip.

My Dad traveled every other week for a great deal of my growing up years. He would leave on Monday mornings and return on Thursday evenings. He worked for the Veteran’s Administration (as it was known then, now Veteran’s Affairs). He was a Field Examiner and traveled to meet with veterans who were too far from an office to make regular visits. I’m not sure where all he went. I think he had an East Texas route. And I’m sure that he went to Austin.

One summer, we made a family vacation out of one of his trips. He stayed in the same motel for every Austin visit, and he was glad for the motel manager to meet his family and for us to meet her and to see where he spent so much time each month. And, it had a pool! It seems like we stayed two or three days, and did some visiting around Austin. Then, oh, yes, indeed, Mother and JoAnne and I flew home to Waco. JoAnne’s and my first airplane trip.

I don’t remember a whole lot about it, except that we got served breakfast. A real  breakfast. Eggs and toast and bacon. And cigarettes. There was a small carton of cigarettes on each tray. We collected all three of ours to hand over to the friend, a smoker, who was picking us up from the airport. Different times.

The stewardess came over to ask if I’d like to see the cockpit, but before we could make that visit, she realized that we didn’t have time. That trip from Austin to Waco, a hundred miles, wasn’t long enough. But, we got some pilot’s wings to wear.

I’ve done quite a bit of plane travel over the past years, mostly going to do training conferences in churches for preschool Sunday School and weekday teachers. But sometimes I was flying out to visit friends and family. Plane travel has changed a lot in those years. I remember when, not only did I get a hot meal, I got to choose if I wanted beef or chicken. I remember when they just handed you earphones to hear the movie.

Once, I was traveling to Nashville, along with other friends who were also going to a writers’ conference. The plane was a big one, with rows of three seats, five seats, and three seats across. It must have been a plane that needed to get to Nashville to ferry a much larger group of people. We had whole rows all to ourselves. It was great! (And we got a nice meal.)

Planes are different now. The rows are closer together, the seats themselves seem more narrow, and if I want any nourishment, I’d better bring it myself.

I like a window seat, only partly because of the window. I guess having the window makes that seat seem less crowded, with that light and open-seeming space next to me. Mainly, people aren’t trying to climb over me if they need to get to the aisle. If I’m napping, I’m less likely to be bothered when I’m sitting by a window. There are drawbacks, but I avoid drinking too much water for quite a while before boarding and always make that “as late as possible” trip to the bathroom.

On my last plane trip, I enjoyed the, um, entertainment center, I guess, on the back of the seat in front of me. It had several music choices and there were a couple of movies. So, I had only to put in my earbuds to have something to listen to. I didn’t watch a movie, because it was already in progress by time I figured out everything, and anyway, I was reading the airline magazine and doing the crossword puzzle. As we neared DFW, a flight attendant began giving us our “prepare for landing” guidelines. Seat backs up. Tray tables stowed. Check for possessions. Gather up trash to hand over to attendants. All that sort of thing.

And then she said, “Return head and footrests to their stowed position.” Headrests? Footrests? Seriously!!!

Yes, there were First-Class passengers on this plane. Maybe eight of them. Maybe twelve? And the scores and scores of the rest of us! She could have very easily walked by each of those First-Class rows and quietly said to them, “Headrest and footrests stowed, please. Thank you.” And not reminded the rest of us that we were Second class folks. Or less.

Meanwhile, we’re approaching an event’s anniversary that still makes my stomach tighten. October 14, marks the beginning of the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. It lasted thirteen days, and happened when my Dad was still traveling for work. He was only gone for four days, every other week, so he wasn’t away that whole time. But, I do remember that he was away for part of it. I have never been so scared.

Some neighbors in the next block up from us were so very concerned that, after that particular crisis was over, they had a bomb shelter installed in their back yard. We kids in the neighborhood called it “Big John,” which was a popular song at the time, and the thing looked like the grave of a very large person. It’s still there. I drive by it a couple of times a day. Every now and then, I consider dropping by and asking the current homeowners what they are doing with it, now. Maybe it’s still all stocked up and waiting for a disaster.