Pilot Quest

By Darlene Sredl

Aspiring to become a pilot, Lindsey finds this life goal is not so easily accomplished. Compounding the usual expected obstacles of financing the in-flight education and training comes the reality that none of this would be approved by her husband and thus, must be kept a secret.

Keeping secrets is never easy, especially not fo

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Oct 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957312750

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Pilot Quest

Copyright © 2022 by Darlene Sredl

Published in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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Interior design by Dorothy Lee

Dedication

To my beloved parents,

Joseph and Bernice Majka

Acknowledgment

Ultimately, the only real tragedy in life

is allowing ambitions to remain unfulfilled.

One day you awaken knowing the thief of time stole

as you slept, forever robbing you of opportunities;

and that your chances of trading on youth, beauty and

brains are now over. Youth is gone. Beauty has faded.

The brains are not quite as quick-witted as once they were;

and the body is now too frail, too pained, to answer

the door should opportunity even dare to knock.

So, it should not come as such a total surprise to you,

my dear Alex when, some day in the future,

you find out what I’ve been up to!

Table of Contents

Healthcare Disaster Drill Disaster

Introductory Flight

Second Flight Lesson Preflighting

the Plane and Mid-Air Turns

Booking Time

Takeoffs and Landings

Takeoffs, Climbs and Turns

Buzzed Rick’s Friend

New Instructor; Spatial Orientation Lesson at Creve Coeur Airport

Briarcliff

Ground School; the Emily Enigma

Takeoff & Landing at New Airport; Low Altitude Flight

AV-NURSE International Is Born

Takeoffs, Landings, Approaches

Co-pilot to Hannibal

Airman’s Flight Physical

Aborted lesson; Received

Student Pilot’s License

Stalls & Spins & Revelations

Ground School

Flying in Marginal Weather

Traffic Patterns, Touch-and-Goes

SOLO X 3 and Full Flap Go-Around

Traffic Patterns and

Cross-Control Spins

Received Radio Operator’s License

Briarclff: Patient Elopement

Second Solo; Pilot, Wife,

Daughter, Mother Guilt

Night Flying: Takeoffs and Landings

Flight Service Station

Landing Checklist, Stalls,

Coping with Pattern Traffic

Flying into Lambert International Airport Vying for Airspace with the Jumbo Jets; Instrument Flying

Covert Affair

Coping with a Takeoff

and Landing Malfunction

Solo Takeoffs and Landings,

My Almost Fatal Error in Judgment

Accuracy Landings, Muddy Field Landings, Short Field Landings,

Slip-to Landings

Plotting and Filing Cross-Country Flight Plan, Visit to Control Tower—Emergency Procedures

for Crash Landing

VFR to Springfield, IL, VOR Checkpoint

Home: Contemplating the Annual September Hex

Flap and Full Flap Go-Arounds, Light Signals, Loop-the-Loop Aileron Roll

Takeoffs and Landings,

Multiple Power Failure in Flight

Ground School, Aerodynamics Theory Relating to Stalls and Spins)

Instrument Flight, Recovery from Stalls, Departure, Approach and Accelerated Stalls, Emergency Landings

Solo to Arrowhead Airport, Tower Mistake, Near Midair Collision

Unfair Reprimand!

Hanging out at the Airport.

Substitute Instructor

Crosswind Takeoffs

Dead Reckoning VOR Navigation, Use of Compass and Discussion of Compass Errors, Recognizing Critical Weather Indicators in Flight Clear Air Turbulance (CAT), Flight to Columbia Regional and Jefferson City Airports, Cata- strophic Near-Miss,

Message to Alex

Home, Living on Borrowed Time, The Fateful Dream

Crash Landing at Washington Airport)

Telling Walker

Home, Damage Estimates

Converting to a Piper Warrior

Grounded by Bad Weather

Briarcliff; Red Porsche is Back

The Lesson of Epic Titus

Crosswind Takeoffs and Landings

Walker’s Approval for

Written FAA Exam

Ground School. Emergency Locator Transmitter ((ELT))

Solo to Jefferson City Airport: First of Three Required Solo Cross-Country Flights

Solo Flight to Hannibal Airport, Second of Three Required Cross Country Flights, Cessna Purchase… of a Sort

Airplane Purchase 101,Walker Comes to Briarcliff for Cross Country Planning

Church

Thirteenth Anniversary, 500 Mile Solo Cross-Country, Third of Three, and Final Solo Cross-Country Flight

FAA Written Exam Second Attempt, Solo Checkflight

Unusual Attitude Recovery

Mr. Rosenbaum’s Birthday Lunch Out

Coping with Mechanical Problems

Zeke’s Accident

Score on Written FAA Exam

Abbreviated Ground School

Crash Course

All Hallow’s Eve

Home with Alex

Solo Pattern Takeoffs and Land- ings, Orville and Wilber’s, Alex’s Discovery

Strong Wind Takeoffs and Landings

Confession to Mom

Cross Wind Takeoffs and Landings in Gusty Conditions, Hammerhead Spin

Kids to the Airport

Building Solo Time

International Banking

Switzerland

Lake Constance and

Our German Friends

Sightseeing

Sightseeing, Alex…

Resolving the Mystery

of My Father

Manual Propeller Start, Slips to a Landing, the Farmhouse

Weather Grounded,

Briarcliff: Mr. Rosenbaum

The Telegram

Home, Decision

FAA Written Exam AGAIN, St. Louis by Twilight, Slip to the Wind Landing

My Come-Uppance

The Pride of Briarcliff

Internal Politics

Washington Airport Revisited

Rings Around a Pylon,

Walker’s Plane

Walker’s Gift

Soft and Short Field Takeoffs,

Power Bleed-Outs

Potential Patient for AV-NURSE International

Pushing for Solo Time, Cross- wind Flying, Minimum Controllable Airspeed, Unusual Attitudes, Instructor Sign-Off for FAA Checkride, Paul’s Surprise—Graduation Checkride!

Dave's Dilemma, Overheard Conversation with FAA Check Flight Inspector

Eights Across a Road, Eights Around a Road, Eights Across Pylons Solo, Reinforced Need for Graduation Check-ride with Paul!

Aborted Graduation

Check-ride with Paul

Sharpening Flying Skills

Mom’s Visit

Graduation Check-ride with

Paul After All

Christmas Eve

Final FAA Check-Flight

December 23, 1977

Healthcare Disaster Drill Disaster

M AYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Rick shouted into the crackling microphone. Two miles east of Labadie Stacks over the far side of the river… goin’ down… static returned his plaintive call. Bitch, look what you did! Rick screamed, frantically pumping the helicopter’s throttle. The engine choked and quit. They were auto-rotating down: classic textbook, no-power autorotation. But Lindsey was far too terrified to think about this flight as a learning situation now. Worse still, she knew she caused the predicament they were in. How could something so simple get so complicated so fast, she wondered?

The day started out simple enough. Lindsey went to work at Briarcliff Nursing Center expecting to participate as an observer in St. Louis’s Annual Healthcare Disaster Drill. Drill rules required one staff member from each health care facility take part in the county- wide emergency drill testing healthcare preparedness in the event of an actual natural disaster. Previous simulated drill disasters included explosions, and a passenger train wreck, but today’s pseudo-disaster was rumored to be a fireworks factory explosion in Jefferson County. Since the drill involved use of rescue helicopters, and because of Lindsey’s pilot training, Arliss, the administrator, assigned Lindsey to represent Briarcliff as an aerial site observer. So, when a Bell helicopter set down in Briarcliff’s parking lot mid-afternoon, Lindsey was not surprised. Unused to the flurry of excitement this windy spectacle provided in their sedentary lives, ambulatory patients clamored outside gawking, pointing and talking animatedly.

Hovering awhile, before finally setting the craft down, the pilot impatiently, motioned for Lindsey to board. Lindsey yelled, Clear the area, before latching shut the chopper’s door. OK, take her up.

Bossy little bitch, you are, but… anything you say, Cinderella, the grinning pilot obliged, shoving the stick full forward, the craft rose vertically, then, leaning into the wind,veered forward barely skimming Briarcliff’s gabled roof. Lindsey’s blood froze at the sound of his familiar voice. Rick! she screamed in shocked disbelief.

Looks like Cinderella’s goin’ to the ball, Rick laughed.

Rick, put the chopper down. Take me back! It’s all over now…. Over? Not by a long shot, baby, this is just the beginning… his voice trailed off as the chopper swung out over the river, veering farther and farther away from the simulated disaster site.

Rick, please, Lindsey begged. Where are you going? Please turn back. I’ll lose my job.

Grinning his slow, sly, enigmatic grin, he turned to her, That’s not all you’re gonna lose, baby. Cinderella’s gonna have a ball all right. Gonna see to it myself.

Suddenly Lindsey seized the cyclic, wresting it from Rick’s tight grasp. Before Rick could stop her Lindsey knocked the throttle forward, glutting the engine with fuel. The engine spurted momentarily, choked, and quit. Rotor-torque jerked the nose of the chopper toward the ground.

Bitch! Rick spat, knocking her hand away from the throttle. Stupid, stupid bitch! We’ve lost compression…we’re goin’ down. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Rick shouted again into the crackling microphone.

The chopper plunged. Frantically working the controls, Rick aimed toward a clearing … oblivious to Lindsey’s terrified screams. Finally, at tree-top level, the semi-flooded engine caught, slap- thrashing the reluctant rotor to action, breaking it’s fall moments before the crippled craft connected hard with the ground. Lindsey screamed as impact sloshed gasoline over the cockpit and through the door-frame drenching them like a pair of Molotov cocktails.

Get the hell outa here! Rick yelled, pulling Lindsey out. It’s gonna blow!

Lindsey stumbled out over the flotilla pads, grateful that the chopper hadn’t gone down in the river. Rick kept tight hold of her arm as they stumbled from the hissing craft. Though the descent had been terrifying, Lindsey sensed much more imminent danger now that she was alone with Rick. As her instincts warned, once a safe distance from the chopper, Rick pulled her down into the brush. His mouth found hers with an urgency that sent shivers of alarm down her spine. Fighting back the tears, she pulled away.

Rick, don’t! Lindsey screamed struggling to her feet. He reached up, catching the tail of her shirt. Lindsey shrieked, wrenching, half- ripping her shirt to release it from his powerful grip. Twisting free of his grasp, she ran. Rick’s confident laughter echoed through the canyon after her.

Sobbing, panting, Lindsey headed for cover in the dense tree line ahead. Shoeless from their hasty exit, pine needles pierced like ground glass as she fled. Close behind, Rick wasn’t laughing anymore. As he gained ground, Lindsey shoved past a dense pine, back-lashing him with the lower branch. Then a tall bramble bush caught her by the shoulders, shredding the last remnants of shirt. Suddenly, Rick lunged, tackling Lindsey hard. Struggling like entwined tumbleweeds, they rolled down the steep embankment. Pinned against the ground, Rick straddled his helpless prey.

Lindsey winced with pain. Eyes ablaze with triumph, Rick surveyed his trophy. My arm, she wimpered. Reluctantly, Rick released the vice-grip on her shoulders, shifting his weight instead to the lower part of her torso. His provocative gaze moved slowly over her exposed ample breasts. Lindsey’s hand groped blindly in the dirt around her. Suddenly she twisted and rammed a fistful of rock into the side of Rick’s head. Momentarily stunned, he fell back.

Seizing the opportunity, Lindsey struggled to her feet. Again Rick was faster, catching her by the ankle. Attempting to wrest her leg from his claw-like grasp, she stumbled and fell. Rick covered her body with his, lustily pinning her once again against the cold gravel. My God, don’t, Lindsey pleaded, sobbing Why are you doing this? Why?

You know why, Baby, eyes flashing, chest heaving as he spoke. I been waiting one…long…time…for…you…

She collapsed, I can’t. I can’t do this, she wailed. Great heaving sobs wracked the body he was bent on possessing.

C’mon, Rick snapped, now obviously irritated. Who do you think you’re kidding? You want it too. It’s not like you was a virgin or something… You little tease, his eyes seared through her, you been asking for it, he hissed.

Lindsey cowered at his feet, her entire body engulfed in weariness, whimpering… waiting…but determined not to give in…Suddenly she saw a path. Struggling to her feet Lindsey ran, not looking back, stumbling, running…

Shit! Rick spat. All-right, Miss Smart-Ass Innocent. He yelled, You got us into this. Since you got all the answers, you can get yourself outa here. But…remember…I… ain’t …done… with… you… yet…

Hidden behind a large rock, Lindsey watched in dazed disbelief as Rick’s retreating shadow faded into the distance. She watched until it disappeared. She was still rooted to the spot, when she heard the magnetos turn over time and time again; the abused engine grinding and straining with each start attempt. Finally, the whap/slap of the rotor rose above the trees, shiny cockpit shell glistening like an angry fly’s giant eye in the setting sun. Almost as quickly as it rose, the craft veered into the wind, soon out of sight. As the engine’s powerful roar faded, the last vestiges of light filtering through the tall boughs faded also and Lindsey realized she was alone—more alone than she had ever been in her life. The eerie silence surrounding her was deafening. Crouching alongside a craggy boulder Lindsey thought, he’s just trying to scare me. He’ll be back; she consoled herself, sniffing. He couldn’t…just leave me here. Alone out here—could he? No, she scoffed. He just wants to scare me. Scare me into submission. He’ll be back, she brightened; or, he’ll send out a search party. Yes! That’s what he’ll do—he’ll send a search party. He’ll tire of the bluff and make it look like it was all part of the drill. Buoyed by her new expectation of help on the way, Lindsey took stock of her immediate situation.

Someone MUST have seen the chopper go down, she reasoned. Surely there’s a farmhouse close by, probably just out of view. With a telephone! The cold December wind whistled through the treetops and suddenly Lindsey shivered. She folded her arms across her barely covered chest to conserve warmth. Well, she thought, if anyone is coming, they’ll have an easier time finding me if I’m a bigger target. She looked out at the dense underbrush. A fire! That’s it—a fire! Walker had cautioned her to carry matches and a flint—just in case. Just in case of situations like this probably, rued Lindsey. She hastily piled the matted kindling then searched through her purse for anything that would burn… old receipts, a matchbook with a few matches left, her familiar black log-book. No tinder, this, she thought, carefully placing the precious log-book out of harm’s way. Trembling, she lit a match. A dud. Try again, she coaxed herself, as the second one caught, but quickly extinguished in the cool evening breeze. Finally, after yet another failed attempt, the crumpled tinder ignited. Lindsey blew at the fragile glow and soon it caught, belching thick gray smoke into the evening sky. Surely a fire would be investigated, she consoled herself.

Lindsey nestled in against the base of a large boulder. At least the big rock broke the wind from her back. The fire’s warmth felt good. In hopeful anticipation of rescue, she opened her log-book. Every lesson, every flight accomplishment was signed and detailed in this log; the diary of events and lessons that would ultimately lead to Lindsey’s becoming a pilot. Strange, how each brief notation came alive again in the soft flickering glow of the fire, peopled with places and events; memories that Lindsey now recalled as if each happened yesterday…

June 18, 1977

Introductory Flight

You always remember the first time. By the middle of June I finally summoned enough courage to book my first flight lesson. I’d always wanted to be a pilot, but the important people in my life vetoed the idea. My mother discouraged me out of fear since she was afraid to fly; my husband Alex, because he decided flying wasn’t a fitting thing for a wife and mother to do (by his rules, anyway). But, here I was at Spirit of St. Louis airport ready to take the lesson anyway on the sly. Rick Romano emerged from the hangar like a man with a purpose.

In black leather flight jacket and pants, he could have doubled for an Air Force advertisement. Why is it I couldn’t see what he was really like back then? I’d certainly had hints along the way—many hints. And yet, if I’d only known then what I know now, I wonder if I would have made that fateful first appointment? An addiction, that first ride; like morphine in your blood, demanding more and more, ever increasing doses to keep you satisfied. Someone once said, flying is hour upon hour of monotonous boredom marked by isolated moments of sheer terror. If I’d only believed how true that was back then, I wonder if I would have continued?

I had come for my flying lesson straight from Briarcliff still dressed in nursing whites. Mr. Air Force guessed that I was a new flight student, and ushered me into Thunderbolt Aviation’s pilot’s lounge. His tousseled, sandy hair made him look as though he had just emerged from a wind tunnel. His tall, Nordic, thirty-something, pristinely chiseled bones contrasted sharply with the dark, brooding forbidden hints flashing from his testy Latin eyes.

Ciao, nurse, Rick drawled, eyes sweeping a quick size-me-up, are you here to give us a fever or take it away? There was something in his jaunty casualness, an elusive something about this grinning, confident man that gave me pause. And yet, trusting was the name of the game, wasn’t it, I thought? I had to trust my life in the hands of whoever taught me to fly. So, momentarily abandoning female judgment and instincts, I soon found myself caught up in the excitement of this new adventure.

Actually, I have an appointment to see Dave, I explained. Dave who?

Well, uh, Dave Hogrebee, Looking at the scribbling on the piece of paper I was clutching. He is one of the instructors here, isn’t he?

Ignoring my question, Rick asked one of his own, Been here before?

No, this is my first lesson.

Well, well, well. Rick drawled. Ain’t it a shame? Rick said to no one in particular. Dave’s gonna be unavoidably detained. BUT, Rick emphasized, I am also a flight instructor, Enrico Romano— Rick to you, m’Lady—at your service! clicking his heels together in mock formal bow. And I would be delighted to teach you a few things. He smiled enigmatically, then added in mock sincerity, About flying.

First step, I learned, was a visual check of the airplane while it is still on the ground. We walked around a Piper Arrowhead inspecting it carefully. (Well, looking at it anyway as I wasn’t sure what to inspect for yet). He pointed out the electricity discharges.

Wings contain the fuel, Rick explained, about twenty-five gallons in each. The right and left rudders are controlled by dual pedals with the brake pedal just atop each of them. Rudder pedals are the plane’s steering mechanism on the ground and their turning mechanism in the air. Other than pushing and pulling the stick to get the feel of it while we were on the ground, I never did find out what it accomplished in the air. Indeed, I wondered what I was supposed to be feeling anyway!

Rick made me steer the plane onto the runway. He motioned for me to put my on my headset and the earphones crackled with static as Rick spun the knob searching for tower frequency. OK, secure tower clearance he ordered.

How am I supposed to know what to say?

Just ask them to give you permission to taxi onto a runway. Uh, tower we would like to taxi onto a runway."

Rick cringed in obvious disbelief as he grabbed the receiver and took over the communication, Tower, this is Cessna N 49235 from Thunderbolt Aviation requesting permission to take off.

Roger, Cessna N 49235, taxi to runway 020—repeat 020, Copy? Roger, tower, 020. Rick confirmed.

As we turned onto the active runway we had just been cleared for, I saw the larger than life number, 20 stenciled at the onset.

Cleared for takeoff, Cessna, N 49235.

Roger that said Rick, smoothly pushing the throttle forward. We quickly picked up speed and were almost at the end of the runway with a tall line of trees fast approaching when Rick finally pulled back on the yoke and our wheels miraculously left the ground. We were up! I sank back into my seat as the plane responded to Rick’s incessant prodding, climbing dutifully toward the horizon. Up, up, up we went through layer after layer of haze, leaving the ground below looking as if some mischievous elf had sprinkled angel hair over the earth in Santa’s absence. Presently, Rick switched on a radio and a soft romantic melody on KMOX filled the small cabin.

Jack Jones was crooning Roses and lollipops, lollipops and roses and though we soared three thousand feet above the crackling tower transmissions—the feeling was still there—a distant memory bubble set free once again to float about the cabin settling before my eyes just as if it had been happening all over again…

There I am! I remembered. That’s me in the svelte navy evening gown with the opera-length white kidskin gloves! Atop the grand staircase of Torronto’s Royal York Hotel, flanked by two impeccably groomed young gentlemen, my sons.

As if on cue, the older one, far wiser by a year than his eleven year old brother, produced a hesitant hand to shake and pass compensation to the surprised Maitre’d. The proffered dollar bought us the Imperial Room’s finest stage-side table.

Then he was there! Jack Jones himself! Resplendent in a flawlessly tailored midnight tuxedo—soothing the socialite audience with his velvet love songs, stopping the show once, to direct the spotlight to shine on our table. He sauntered toward us promising magic in his devil eyes and asked my son for permission to sing to me. He did more than sing. He crooned, cajoled, promised, and delivered. His eyes held mine like magnets—me unable, unwilling to look elsewhere. He alone, truly understands—a woman…her feelings, her longings, her passions. ah Jack…the brief reverie ended abruptly.

Will you keep this plane level? Rick demanded, abruptly jolting me out of my daydream.

YOU fly it then, Lindsey flashed. I just want to enjoy the ride. Nope. You’re the pilot. Rick reminded me. Then, suddenly eyeing the fog and rethinking the situation, he said, This stuff is as thick as pea soup. and yanked the controls away from me announced, we’d better go in.

Back at Thunderbolt, Rick led me past the vending machines to an unoccupied teaching cubicle. He flipped a chair around, straddling it, as might a used car salesman closing in for the deal.

So, your first lesson, huh?

Mm-m I purred, sipping the hot coffee Rick had provided. What did you think?

Not bad. I shrugged.

Rick laughed figuring up the tack sheet. Not bad, huh? OK, so let’s go back up.

"Well, not right now. But I DO want to go again. I want to be a pilot.

It’s very important to me."

OK choose the time and place and we’ll get you off. One thing I should mention though, it’s really important to stick with one instructor. Don’t hopscotch around. When you fly steadily with one instructor you become aware of each others’ strengths and weaknesses and you build on them…more professional, you know. I nodded. There was logic in that. "OK, but what about Dave?

That’s who I booked my first lesson with."

You let me worry about Dave. We’ll start some ground instruction now. Rick offered.

Can’t. Gotta go Why?

Just have to, that’s all!

Like Cinderella, huh? Want to schedule next time? Wednesday and Friday. Five O’clock.

If you could come earlier, we could… Can’t, I’m working. I tossed on my way out.

Wait! Rick yelled, waving the yellow bill. What about this bill for today’s lesson?

Oh, just tear it up. This is my free demonstration ride.

Hey! We don’t give free rides!

Dave does. Work it out with him, like you said.

Sitting on the side of my bed later that night I relived the day. A new day; a new start; a new adventure! I actually flew! I, Lindsey Johnson, stepped in a single engine aircraft, adjusted the throttle, sped down the runway and slid into the air!

I had always wanted to fly. Always! Blitzkreig was a household word when I was young. Even Chicago’s Humboldt Park’s green lagoon assumed Pearl Harbor status to us kids, hard-knock graduates from nursery rhymes to modern times. Berlin-dubbed sand castles proliferated about the crater-pocked sandlot. At night, armed with more nerve than ammo, we scanned the sky in search of enemy bombers. Flashing sticks of light, our spotters took to field inspections of alien tanks stationed alongside the park’s secluded winding lanes. Uncovering the enemy in these intimate circumstances, consisted of stealthily surrounding an occupied tank, then saluting, Heil, effectively scareing the hapless couple clear out of their wits!

On tamer nights, though, even Mom’s bedtime airlifts reinforced the fact that we were indeed a nation at war. I recalled laying on the bed beside Mom as she snooked me in, all warm and prayed over. Mom’s mischievous blue eyes twinkling in delicious anticipation, would begin casually. What color airplane are you going up in tonight?

Pink! I would call out (or blue, or green, or black, depending on my mood).

And what kind of cargo will you drop? Mom dared. Marshmallows! (Or rice, or frogs, or bombs, equally indicative

of how my day had gone). Then suddenly the airplane that used to be Mom’s hand, soared overhead, teasingly hovering like an anxious helicopter before dispatching a five digit bomb on the tickle spot between my ribs, accurately exploding it’s eager target into helpless giggles! Thinking back on it, I sometimes wondered if Mom weren’t really sublimating a desire to help Daddy’s hopelessly besieged infantry division by providing all those whimsical paratrooper reinforcements?

Before Dad left that crisp September morning, he clipped his little tomboy on the chin. Goodbye, little co-pilot. He had said. See you ’round. And then…was gone…forever.

But to a child, far removed from the grim reality of distant combat, war is only a standard by which to measure good guy versus bad. And us good guys needed all the ammunition we could get. My unfettered imagination churned out kites, wings, gliders, boomerangs; anything airborne was fair game. Even fowl game was fair game— evidenced by the cardboard wings fashioned of feathers begrudgingly donated by an unfriendly neighbor’s shivering parrot. That particular invention did indeed boomerang, right on the seat of my pants. Now here I am trying to get the seat of the pants feel of flying!

Oddly enough, the aged generation in my family did the most to foster my love of flying. Paternal Grandmother insisted on seeing the after-effects of war-torn Europe firsthand. She spoke hopefully of finding Dad who was now listed as missing in action. His whereabouts remained a mystery spanning two continents.

How I longed to go with Gram. Take me! My heart screamed at the airport, but Grandma departed alone. She flew alone to another continent—a show of womanly independence virtually unheard of in the late forties.

Gram returned a changed woman; her face puffy, eyes swollen almost shut. Gram and Mom went into the living room and had a long choking talk deep into the night. I kept an ear to the closed door but heard only muffled cries.

Wanderlust surfaced again between my junior and senior years in nursing school. This time Maternal Gram decided to visit a friend in Connecticut; a decision that met with considerable family opposition. Gram was a brittle diabetic, subject to occasional spells from over-indulgence of one sweet sort or another. Grandmama, however, dealt her trump card at the last minute, offering to relieve their anxieties by traveling with a companion—me! What better choice, she argued, than a student nurse? Who better to accurately monitor her every bite, administer insulin, and in general, be on hand to keep her out of trouble? Keeping Gram out of trouble was a laugh, I mused. Gram had a way of finding Mr. Trouble even when he was hiding in the most innocent of circumstances.

Lindy, Gram jabbed her elbow into my ribs effectively dislocating my reverie midway through the flight. I tink we should have a little someting to settle our nerves. The something Gram referred to was listed under in-flight beverages. I opted for the clear bubbly while Gram chose the rose-colored fermented grape juice. Well into our third glass, the stewardesses began to act in a most peculiar fashion, rolling their eyeballs around in a most comical way when they looked our way.

Presently the Captain’s voice boomed over the intercom announcing turbulence. Funny!