Taking Flight

by Solmonson, Sarah

  My high school choir went to Italy for a week in March of 2001. There was a shadow trip offered for parents so they could attend all the concerts and take a tour of Italy while staying in different hotels and giving us our freedom. Since Mom couldn’t bring you for what would have been the first trip overseas for the both of you, she brought Grandma.

  Italy was a turning point for me. It took leaving home far behind me to fit in again. I didn’t have to force myself to have an appetite, the platters of penne pasta that were set in front of me were devoured in minutes. I threw a hundred coins into a hundred ancient fountains, not foolish enough to try and wish my grief away completely. Instead I thanked the stone edifices for easing the pain, showing me that reprieve was possible, if only temporarily. There was music again, and when I sang in darkened churches lit only by dripping candles I felt a connection to a God I had stopped talking to with the Latin words that passed from my lips and rose and reverberated inside the domed ceilings.

  While walking down a street in Florence I passed a wooden cart with bundles of flowers. Dozens of red and white roses called to me, bringing me back to your funeral and the blossoms I had laid upon your casket. I paid an old woman with crumpled lire for one red and one white rose. I carried them with me for the rest of the night, and at our evening performance I held them in my hand, wishing you could see me sing in such a lovely city.

  I separated myself from the crowd after we had finished and I walked to the hotel on my own. The hotel was set on the top of an incredibly steep hill and by the time I got to the top I could hardly breathe. The valley stretched out for miles below me, Rows of trees, villas and grapes decorated the hillsides. I leaned against the jagged stone wall, still warm from the daylight, and slowly I began to tear the petals from the stems. When my hands were full I threw them over the wall, and watched with delight as the breath of God carried them far and away, my burdened eased ever so slightly.

  I’m not sure if traveling is my way of running away from reality or my way of reconnecting with myself. I hope it’s the later, because I have done much travelling and hope to do a great deal more. Instead of walking in my high school graduation Mom sent me on a month long trip with Stephanie, touring Italy, France, Spain and Switzerland. I’ve worked a second job for the better part of my twenties that has allowed me to stand inside a giant redwood tree in California. I’ve sat on Oahu’s North Shore and felt the force a seventy foot wave crash into the rocky surf. I’ve touched the Berlin Wall and walked through the crumbling remains of the Coliseum.

  Seeing the world is something you never got around to doing.

  I think your plane was your biggest dream, but it certainly wasn’t your only one. Forty-eight is a young age to die and there was much you never got to do. I am terrified that if I wait until I have more money or a stable career that twenty years will have passed with me just talking about the things I’d like to do someday. Your death has awakened me to each moment I am breathing. In and out, I am here.

  Though I did inherit your values when it comes to money, I did not inherit your paranoid need for caution. I want to experience life with my husband and friends now, not someday in the future when we may or may not make it to old age.

  When I travel and I find myself sitting in a teeny cafe, the cadence of a language I don’t understand filling my ears, bumpy cobblestone beneath my feet, I end up thinking that maybe traveling is to me what flying was to you. Maybe we both need wings to take us where we feel like we belong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I know that I’ve said it was better that Dad died doing something he loved, but to be honest I have struggled with this concept for years.

  On one hand, Dad lived to see one of his biggest dreams come true. He built, from scratch, from nothing, an airplane that was signed off by the Federal Aviation Administration. How many people are smart enough, patient enough and dedicated enough to do that? How many even try? In addition to his airplane, he died with a good job, a nice house, and a happy, healthy family.

  Maybe it was just his time. It was meant to be. He was young but his life had been so full. Of course my family wishes he could have been with us longer, but there is no denying that he went out on top.

  But then again...he’s still dead! Doesn’t that trump the way in which he died? Flying used to be something I loved – not with the same obsession that my Dad felt, but I was raised a pilot’s daughter. I was his co-pilot. His enthusiasm was infectious. He not only left me without a father but robbed me of something that once brought our family such joy.

  I think about hobbies and passions and wonder what the better legacy is to leave your children: I loved you enough to play it safe so I could be around as long as possible, or, I loved you enough that I showed you how to make your dream a reality. An avid chess player might have a heart attack and die while playing chess, but it wasn’t chess that killed him. In that scenario his children can talk about the hours their father spent playing chess, his love of the game, and perhaps they could even find satisfaction that the last thing he did in life was play chess. As I consider the risks involved with flying I can’t help but feel like Dad was selfish. I know no one believes the unthinkable will happen to them. I understand that we were the exception to the rule. But if Dad hadn’t been a pilot, if he had been a chess player, then he wouldn’t have died in some field, taken down by something he loved and believed in.

  For all the work and energy he devoted to his plane, he only had one season to fly. Was it worth it? Would it have been worse if he had died and the plane had been unfinished? Would it have been harder for Mom and I to try to decide what to do with his plane, when to take it apart and let it go? Is it better he died doing something he loved in the thing that he loved, leaving us nothing but scraps to dispose of?

  In the newspaper article about the crash, Mom is quoted saying, “If you think golfers are nuts you should talk to pilots!” I didn’t understand the joke then, but now that I’ve worked in an office where almost every one talks golf, I understand and couldn’t agree more. Pilots share a bond in their love of flight. Their decisions to defy what the rest of us take for an indisputable law bonds them together forever.

  Jim helped with the official investigation after the crash. We all wanted to make sure that every document showed that the crash was not pilot or mechanical error. There is a stigma about experimental aircrafts, and it would have been devastating for us to find out that Dad had screwed up, either in construction or while in flight. That would have brought about an anger that I don’t think I would ever be able to forgive. Even so, people still ask me what he did wrong. I have explained countless times that those little planes are actually safe, and that no, Dad didn’t forget to tighten a bolt or secure a wing. Shit just happens.

  Jim tried to salvage what he could for us after the inspection was complete. There was nothing left of the beautiful wooden propeller, the engine, or the wings, but miraculously the N numbers on both sides of the fuselage survived the deadly cartwheel. Jim brought them to us, folded and placed reverently in Mom’s arms as if they were a flag and she was the widow of a fallen solider. Mom and I each kept one. Mine stayed in a box in my closet for seven years before I was ready to have it framed alongside a photo of my dad in his plane.

  Of everything that could have been salvaged, the N number is by far the most meaningful. N256DN was named to represent my birthday in February, Dad’s birthday in May and Mom’s birthday in June, followed by Dad’s initials.

  Here’s what I know: Mom and I mattered enough to him that he named his plane after us. This must mean that his dreams always included us, and it might mean that we were the last thing he clung to before he hit the ground.

  About a year ago I was given a box from my Mom filled with some of my Dad’s things. I thought I knew of everything that was left of his, and this had often disappointed me. In the movies there’s always a letter discovered that relieves the grieving person just a little bit, a message from beyond, one last
word of advice.

  As I dug through the box, past old reading glasses and a red lunchbox Mom had decorated with Superman comic cutouts for Dad’s first day of work in Minnesota, I found a small spiral notebook. Dad had used this notebook to jot down a brief description of the work he had done to N256DN on any given day. I’d flipped through it before but hadn’t spent much time reading it since I didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about when he spoke in ‘plane’.

  I absently flipped through the pages, fingering the hardened glue stains that had randomly splattered on the paper, smiling at the loopy cursive that mirrors my own. Instead of stopping when the journal ended I kept going, just in case, and sure enough there was a page at the very end I had never seen before.

  Dad had sketched out a side view of his airplane. Alongside the sketch was a list of what must have been potential options for the N number. Of the five listed, two are circled. One has mine and my Grandpa’s birthday, and the other is N256DN. On the sketch of his plane he added his chosen N number.

  I can only guess how many times he stared at that page, wishing and hoping that he would see his vision take flight.

  Scribbled in faint pencil along the lower left side are the words “Everyone should have a dream.” I am looking at this precious inscription, my last message from my father, as I type our story. I will never know when during those six years Dad wrote that encouragement to himself, but I know without a doubt he believed it to be true.

  And that’s the secret to surviving this loss. Each day I will do everything in my power to touch the skies of my dreams.

  This is the legacy my father has left me.

  In return, I will give him my song to listen to, to follow, until we meet again.

  2000

  April 1: Took wings to Belle Plaine airport.

  April 2: Did taxi test, final hookup of airspeed, all operating in normal condition.

  I, David Norton, have found the entire airplane to be airworthy. Signed David Norton, 4/12/00.

  EPILOGUE

  I am a roller coaster fanatic, which is strange because I hate heights. It’s hard for me to remember a time when I wasn’t the one running towards the lines for the biggest and scariest rides at amusement parks, but I wasn’t always the front seat, hands up rider that I am today.

  When we lived in Missouri my parents would drive over an hour once each summer to go to Six Flags. I rode all the kiddie rides, especially the Loony Tunes airplanes, while I looked up at the giant roller coasters in horror, listening to the bloodcurdling screams from the riders above.

  I was seven when Dad stood me against the ruler at the entrance of the Screamin’ Yellow Eagle, the biggest coaster in the park at the time. I was tall enough. Barely.

  “It’s time to try it,” Dad encouraged with a smile. He was excited.

  I was scared. “I don’t want to.”

  “I’ll sit next to you, you’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  I hugged my Mom’s legs. “I don’t want to!”

  Dad bent down to look at me. “Just try it once. It will be an adventure.”

  Reluctantly I took his hand and let him lead me into the line. The lined weaved back and forth forever, taking us upstairs and over a bridge. Screamin’ Yellow Eagle rumbled and shook the tracks around us, going over our heads and wrapping around our sides like a boa constrictor. As we approached the turnstile I felt my stomach flop and my heart pound in my chest. Everyone who got off the ride looked like they had had a good time, but I still wasn’t convinced.

  Our turn came too soon. I sunk into the deep plastic seat and was relieved to find I couldn’t really see over the top of the car. Dad buckled the seatbelt across our laps and pulled down a large metal bar. I wrapped my arms around the bar and leaned into Dad’s side, trying not to cry. He put an arm around me and laughed as we started clicking onto the track and up the big hill.

  The giant drop sucked my scream into the wind. I felt like the world was falling away from under me. But then we caught the ground and pulled back up, and sure enough, the next time I screamed it was from excitement. Dad had been right – I loved it!

  After we moved to Minnesota we continued our amusement park tradition by going to Valley Fair. Valley Fair was a much smaller park in comparison but it wasn’t without a few good rides. I faced my next challenge when I was ten: rides that went upside down. I refused to go on anything with shoulder harnesses and loops. Mom was no help. Put her on a ride and she would scream before the seatbelt had been buckled. Dad tried to coerce me to try a looping ride but as I got older and arguably wiser I stopped falling for his promise of an adventure.

  I wish I could remember what made me decide, at the last second, to go on the Corckscrew, a roller coaster that lasted less than a minute but contained several loops. It was a drizzly day and we were on our way out of the park. I think Dad stopped in front of the entrance and said, “What do you think, Sar? Wanna go?”

  And then there we were, strapped into wet metal seats, me bouncing my knee nervously. The ride up was too brief to let me feel any significant fear. When we made the first loop I forced myself to keep my eyes open and take it all in.

  For the moment I was suspended upside down I felt completely weightless. Free.

  It was like flying.

  I was on the phone with my boyfriend on a chilly night in April when Mom came into my room to tell me, much like an expectant woman would cue her husband, that it was probably time. After six long years of chemicals and sawing and cursing, N256DN was ready for her test flight. “It could be tonight. You might want to come,” Mom said, glancing from the phone in my hand to me.

  I said goodbye to my boyfriend and ran to the car with Mom. We were too excited to talk and it felt like we drove forever before we parked at Jim’s airport. N256DN was in the grass, Dad and Jim standing with crossed arms as they watch the inspector take notes. Mom and I joined them and waited, collectively holding our breaths.

  The inspector clicked his pen and climbed into the plane. He handed his clipboard to Jim. “Are you ready for this Mr. Norton?” he asked. Before Dad could answer his plane was alive, chugging and clicking, the wooden propeller turning faster and faster circles until the individual blades were lost in a blur.

  We followed the plane down on to the runway, all of us grinning like idiots, beaming at the baby taking her first steps. The inspector taxied down the grassy runway once or twice and then lifted off into the air.

  I like to think of Dad at that very moment – proud, awestruck, happy. From scraps of wood and blueprints, my Dad had built the red and white plane that was flying over our heads.

  The inspector landed after a few short circles and taxied over to us. He killed the engine, hopped out, and shook my Dad’s hand. “Well done, sir.” He checked his watch. “If you want to take it up, I have time. It’s your call.”

  Dad turned to us. “What do you think?” He may as well have been walking through the front door with a new puppy, begging to keep it. He wanted this bad.

  “You’ve had a big night already. Don’t you think it’s been exciting enough?” Mom asked hopefully, putting a hand on his arm.

  I watched the light drain from his face. Pilots make decisions to leave everyone else on the ground with each flight they take. Mom was asking him in her own way not to leave her hind. He stared at his wife, the plane behind him, the clock ticking.

  Dad looked at me. “What about you, kiddo?”

  I realized then that flying was something he hadn’t shared with Mom, not like he had shared it with me. Flying was something he had let me in on, something that had kept us together as I had grown up. He needed to know we would always have this.

  I threw my hands up. “Dad, you’ve waited forever! Just fly the damn thing!”

  Dad grinned in a way I’ll never forget. Every dimple was ignited in his cheeks. Mom groaned, knowing full well there was no stopping him now. We watched as he hoisted himself into his plane and started the engi
ne.

  As he taxied down the runway, gaining speed, the plane bumping over the uneven grass, Mom put her arm around me. “Oh God, please let him be alright,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

  As he glided above us, joy in motion, I leaned my head on her shoulder and said with authority, “Don’t worry. God wouldn’t take him on his first flight.”

  I had the presence of mind to grab the video camera before we left the house, and as Dad flew I filmed him, zooming in and then out to show just how far and high he had gone.

  I never asked him what it was like to be up there that night, to experience his dream coming true. I don’t regret it, either.

  Some things are too extraordinary for words.

  I’ll never have the opportunity to care for my aging father. I’ll never take him to the doctor for checkups or pester him to eat right. But that night, that one time, I took care of him. I told him to do something that I knew was the adventure he had waited for his whole life.

  When he landed and taxied back to us I followed him closely with the camera. Everyone was cheering and clapping, and as he passed us he threw his hands up triumphantly over his head, all smiles. Just before he reached the hanger, his eyes locked with mine.

  That last wave was just for me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would not exist without the support and extensive talents of my husband, Dustin. From cooking dinner, to caring for two crazy dogs, to taking on household chores, Dustin gave me the gift of writing time. As if that wasn’t enough, he is also my graphic designer. He can be reached at dustin.solmonson@gmail.com.

  I also wish to thank my mom, Jan Norton, for her constant belief and support. Her words of encouragement saved many pages and hopes from being tossed in the shredder.