The wonder of being someone

Where I try and convince you I am someone, or at least once was.

The day after I graduated 6th grade I flew an airplane for the first time, a gift from my grandfather, and suddenly the world was divided into those who had flown and those who hadn’t. I obviously was in the first category, even though I was so small that I needed to sit on three phonebooks to see outside. And not just any old phonebooks, but the yellow pages for Los Angeles, Oklahoma, and Detroit, thick phone books piled high on the seat so that my childish blue eyes could see the horizon¹. He smiled at me, I stared in awe, and we both shared the magic of escaping earth’s surly bonds.

This isn’t a picture of our flight, but she’s still a beauty of a plane.

Pops was the proud owner of a 1970s Beechcraft Barron II. It was a twin engine prop plane, big enough to seat eight, with the original seventies plush interior and maroon leather seats. He loved flying his plane, and I loved him. The day after graduation, he buckled me into the right seat and closed the armrest ashtray with its cigarette ash piling out, then, passing 3,000 feet, brought the yoke in front of me and gave me the gift of being someone. Not just someone who had flown, but someone who had flown. That I was now SOMEONE was suddenly so obvious to me, that I had to share it with anyone who would listen. 

Thirty years later I still love to tell everyone that I am someone (who has flown). I’ve been known to drop the fact into a casual conversation with strangers. At my local coffeehouse, I’ll lean over and casually tell the next table how this cup of joe is way better than the coffee that squadrons served back when I was flying airplanes. Or I’ll mention that even though the sky looks beautiful, there is a 23.75% chance of cumulonimbus clouds forming in the area; I checked the aviation weather service. I can see how impressed they are that I’m someone (who has flown).

The act of flying isn’t as magical as it once was. In fact, when I’m a passenger I’ll usually fall asleep before we pull away from the gate, and on short flights I’ll wake up when we’ve landed at our destination. I’ve flown for almost 1600 hours, in everything from gliders to jumbo jets, so I’m comfortable that there’s not much to look forward to. Sometimes I forget not everyone is so comfortable midair.

A few years back I was flying home from Atlanta on the redeye. We were in one of those smaller jets that has two seats on each side of the aisle, and I had an aisle seat next to this distinguished older woman, the type who still dresses up to fly. As usual, I was asleep before the pilot could tell us to fasten our seat belts. At some point we must have flown through turbulence, because that old lady grabbed my hand sharply and squeezed me out of sleep. I woke up with a start in the dark, where the only thing I could see was the flashing red light reflecting off the clouds through the small window beside her. I remember the terror in her southern mistress voice as she asked me how the pilots see in “this here weather”. Without even considering what she meant, I replied, matter of factly, “they don’t see.” 

Then I fell right back asleep.

These days flying isn’t a regular part of my life. I haven’t flown an airplane in almost a year, and I have flown maybe three times in the last five. Which means it’s getting harder to casually let people know that I am someone (who has flown). I’m trying to teach my children to bring it up, because who doesn’t love listening to a cute child? At first they were slow, probably because they’re the type of people who haven’t flown before. Or maybe because they’re five and eight. When I’d ask them if they wanted to hear a story about flying off the aircraft carrier, they’d just roll their eyes. But lately, they’ve really gotten into the act.

This was and is my helmet, complete with 300 carrier landings.

They’ve started inviting friends over to show off my old flight helmet, the one with the Black Eagle and Slurpee stickers on the back. They love to gently bring it off the shelf, place it on their friend’s head, and lower the visor until it clicks against the mask. Then they’ll run around the living room in a left handed oval, just like I taught them to fly the landing pattern. After a few laps they’ll trade places with their friend. Between sharing the helmet and teaching their friends how to fly, we easily spend an hour laughing and playing. Not only do their friends enjoy it, but it makes for a good picture that I can send to these kids’ parents. It’s a great conversation starter, naturally about how I used to fly.

It helps that their favorite movie is Top Gun: Maverick. When a teacher or a parent is walking with them, they’ve gotten good at dropping that into conversation. My daughter especially likes to tell people that she’s going to watch Top Gun this weekend. When they give her the strange look that asks why a five year old is watching Top Gun, she’ll matter of factly say, “My dad used to be a Top Gun Pilot².” 

She always times that line perfectly, just as I’m walking up. And I then get to tell this new person that I am in fact someone (who has flown).

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As 2023 comes to an end, I’m feeling energized and ready to share updates in the coming weeks and month. It’s an honor to get to share these with all of you. More to come, but the first update is…

If you enjoyed the collaboration I did on fatherhood in September, the same writing group is doing another one next week. I’ll be talking about “Recovery”, with an off-cycle post on Monday, December 11th. Also writing about recovery will be Joshua Doležal, Bowen Dwelle, Michael Mohr, Dee Rambeau, and

Lyle McKeany

. I hope you’ll enjoy them all out starting on December 11th and going through the end of the week.

1. Losing his medical license to fly was really hard on Pops. As he grew older, he’d relive his old flying days through stories he’d tell us kids. The story about the phonebooks was a perennial favorite. By the last couple of years of his life, I think he told me that same story five times a day or more. It broke my heart to hear it the last few times, but I always smiled for him and gave him a hug when he did. I miss him immensely.

2. Note, I was not, in fact, a Top Gun Pilot. I did go through my community’s weapons school, but it was not flying fighter jets, and we didn’t sing Great Balls of Fire. But that’s too much detail for her to really care about.

Another fun Top Gun fact: at Top Gun, quoting the movie is a $50 fine, except on Tuesdays. Top Gun Tuesdays are a thing.