Journal of a Living Lady #237

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

            Every subject has its own language. My sister’s husband is a computer enthusiast. At family gatherings, we quickly find ourselves in a two-person discussion. Nobody stays around long to hear about firewalls, routers, or how to upgrade the bios.

 

            The same family dispersal formula works for Buddy. As soon as he starts talking about airplanes, those in the circle of conversation slowly drift away to talk about wrestling or recipes. If they stuck around, they may learn that banking in the aviation world isn’t about money.

 

            Ask a child to describe hangar flying and his likely response would be: remove clothes from the closet; use the metal hangars to make wire wings; attach them to the body with duct tape; jump off the roof of the garage.

 

            Not exactly. Hangar flying is endless aviation chatter. Since Buddy is a retired aircraft mechanic, I have been listening to his stories for forty years. Buddy can reminisce for hours about his own experiences in the cockpit or the interesting people he has met in the field, literally. Billy Graham and Frank Borman are two that come to mind.

 

              Mostly hangar flying is a guy thing. There are a few of us card-carrying FAA licensed pilots of the other gender. Except for passing my physical and the required biennial flight review, I could be up in the air tomorrow. Oops! Probably not. There is the small matter of having a plane and a wad of expendable fifties for gas. Though I let my membership lapse, I am still a Captain in the Civil Air Patrol. If the situation in Iraq gets any worse, I fear that Uncle Sam may start recruiting gray-haired granny pilots.

 

            Until now, Buddy and I have had a private joke, privileged information, about our flying licenses. He won’t mind if I share it with you readers. This is it. Shh! I got the highest scores on the written FAA exams. Buddy barely passed. Yet, from a practical point of view, which is the one that counts, he is the better pilot. If we were in an emergency situation, I wouldn’t hesitate turning the controls over to him. If he weren’t in his seventies, and the military would let him back in, I am certain Buddy would jump at the chance to pilot a jet and join the war on terrorism.

 

            Recently, at a fund-raiser, I gave the highest bid for a local hour-long airplane ride. That was the best surprise gift I have ever given him.

 

             Waiting for the flight day though was misery. It was more like a five-year-old waiting for Christmas. A couple of times the weather didn’t cooperate. On that last postponement, I had a really depressed senior citizen on my hands. No amount of ice cream or animated promise of a trip to Disney Land could pull him from the despondency.  Finally I admitted guilt for causing the rain and dark clouds and imposed judgment. I sentenced myself to the bedroom. Door closed. No visitors. No television. No reading material. Just three hours of blissful sleep.

 

            Today the weather was perfect. Buddy and a good friend were up at sunrise. After a breakfast of sausage and waffles, they were off to the airport full of food and anticipation

 

 

            The owner of the plane was at the airport at the appointed time. With cameras in hand, Buddy, his friend, the pilot, plus one of his friends, loaded themselves into the small Cessna. The engine was strong enough to get them off the ground, but I privately wished they had left off the breakfast sausage. This was a load and these were the mountains.

 

            Back home now, Buddy has pictures that he shows to anybody who will stop long enough to browse through them. Some of our neighbors and friends have a photo of their homes taken from the air by an aging, enthusiastic pilot that I just happen to love.

nancyk@alltel.net