First Flight
In the summer of 1969, I was ten when my plane crashed. . . .
Saturday morning, Dad backs our car out of the garage to give us workshop room. I want to learn what my big brother Craig has learned. I want to create wood stuff too.
“Hold the nail, focus on its head, and hammer hard.”
Hitting nails scare me, afraid of hurting my finger or my thumb. Dad waits and watches me. I follow Dad's rules, even with fear. His rules have reasons.
“Look at the nail head. After one good hit, turn loose of the nail. Then hold the wood. Aim straight down so the nail won’t angle. Hit two or three more hard hits, until the nail head flattens with the wood. Practice makes perfect.”
My tomboy heart challenges me to mimic and catch up with Craig and Dad. Our workshop becomes alive while the table saw whines loud, the fresh wood chips' odor overcomes oil and gas as sawdust slowly falls to the floor. Dad measures, draws, cuts and drills. I hammer on and on and on, growing stronger and straighter. A random thumb pain now and then lessons my left thumb's fear. Sawdust suddenly flies into my eyes. Scared blinking scratches my eyes. Rubbing them hurts even worse, so my tears run me outside onto our driveway. Crying, my tears drag the dust down my cheeks. Relief calming me down, wiping tears and dirt off my face. The wet sawdust flies away with weather's rushing wind.
A whitewood board laying near our front yard catches my attention. Hmmm. Dad uses wood making bookcases, maypoles, chaise lounges, picnic tables, and wagons. Could this board fly me like the Wright brothers’ airplane flew them? Reaching down to pick it up, I feel its weight. Gripping and holding one end with my left hand, the board presses against my chest while my right hand wiggles and crawls down the board’s edge, all the way to the end. My arms stretch farther than ever before as my knuckles barely hold the board up. Clenching my wood wing, I turn toward our sidewalk and start trotting takeoff. Faster steps increase my momentum while strong wind joins my control. My nose tilts upward and my heart beats strong — I’m in flight!
Until the wind bursts, pushes me forward and crashing me down. Landing, both my wingtips flatten beneath the wood, and scream pain out my mouth. Trying to remove my fingertips, my weight pins and fastens them. My impacted plane can't move an inch.
"You're okay!" Craig runs up from somewhere behind. Grabbing my waist, he lifts my entire body and plane, saving me from death. Frowning while he chuckles, he sets me down in the soft grass. “You’ll get to fly some day. On a real airplane.”
