My grandmother went to flight school once. She was well on her way to becoming a full-fledged pilot when she quit. Rumor had it that when she getting her certification, she couldn’t handle the solo flight.
She was assigned to fly over the Everglades. Her pilot’s license was just over the swampy horizon, but she couldn’t handle the radio silence. She couldn’t handle being by herself up in the air, all alone. So she decided not to pursue it. And that was the end of that as far as my family was concerned.
But sometimes, when I’m driving in the foggy, humid mucky darkness of the South, I can’t help but think of my grandmother, flying above the clouds in her Cessna Skyhawk, peering down at miles and miles of bog and feeling more lonesome than she’s ever felt in her entire life. I wonder what some of the roads that I drive on might look from her perspective—and if I would feel as small as a grain of rice if I saw this place from above.
When I can hear nothing but my car thumping over the uneven pavement of County Line Road, I wonder what she was thinking about when the dull idle of the propellers was all to keep her company. I wonder if she got tired up there, eyes glassy in the sticky-hotness of the Florida afternoon. Her eyes reflecting the tinkering dials and meters of the rickety plane come to mind on those bumpy country roads.
I sometimes even imagine her talking to her plane like a friend, between Air Traffic communications. Her plane might have been a secret friend that she was too scared to tell anyone about—probably didn’t want to be known as that crazy kook of a Cessna pilot. Maybe she even had a name for her plane, addressed it as sir or madam, and even talked to it about the weather, apologizing to it for the turbulence.
As my headlights illuminate the reflectors in the road, I think of her, all alone ten-or-so thousand feet in the air, lonely as she had ever been in her entire life. I think of her, trying not to think about her intense anxiety about being alone, being so high above anyone who might know or care about her.
I think of the shame on her face as she touched the plane down to the runway, as she approached her instructor about quitting flight school. I picture her sitting in her green Cadillac out in the lot, watching the Cessnas take off, soft tears hitting the beige leather of her front seat. Starting the old car with a lurch, I imagine her peeling away from that parking lot and not bothering to look back.
I imagine her changing her story after that day. Rather than telling people she was going to flight school, telling them that she had been to flight school once.
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