It's called Virga. Wisps or streaks of water falling out of a
cloud but evaporating before reaching the ground. A dry microburst. Like a
tantrum cut short.
We wake with plans. We wake thinking our day will go a certain
way. We plan for these plans. We make lists and schedules and abide by rules
and we have dates and dinners and deadlines. We allow for chance and change. Or
so we think. But rarely do things blindside us. Truly blindside us.
I woke this morning having no idea I'd be here at the end of the
day, in wisps of wonder.
I had 3 hours of sleep, frustrated by plans being delayed,
travel not running smoothly the prior night. I woke in a rush, 25 minutes to
catch an airport shuttle after a night that went later than I'd wanted and too
little sleep for comfort for the long day ahead. At the last minute thought a
shower might wake me up (how prescient). I wore my most comfortable
"sleeping on a plane" outfit, hues of greys and browns, baggy and
invisible. I'd packed my overstuffed bag of everything but the guitar and the
backpack holding the essentials and the laptop. No extra clothes. No medicine.
No guitar gear. A well-thought out travel plan: a flight from Baltimore to
Memphis, a tight connection to Omaha, pick up the rental car, drive 4.5 hours
to McCook, have 2 hours to spare to nap, shower, change, soundcheck, do 2 sets
of music. Easy peasy. Cept the flight was late getting into Memphis due to
storms and I sat at the back of the plane watching people slowly get their gear
and amble or saunter off the plane, as I waited and waited for my guitar to be
brought off gate check, the minutes ticking, as I realized my flight to Omaha
had left without me, as I went to plea my case to the Delta ticket agent,
Ursula (I won't soon forget her) who informed me she couldn't help but pointed
apathetically to a bank of phones under a "Customer Service" sign. I
went to the phones and none worked. Ursula came over and slowly (I mean
s-l-o-w-l-y) tried each and said "Huh" as if surprised (did she not
hear me?), "These do not work" and then shrugged and went back to her
desk. I was busy on my mantra "Don't make it worse, don't make it
worse" so that I wouldn't get all Jersey on Ursula. I called from my cell
to find a lovely operator who helped me, insomuch as she couldn't possibly
redirect me to any flight into either Omaha or Denver earlier than late
afternoon, making it totally impossible for me to make the show. Plus, I was adamant
that I had to be on a flight where my bags would be able to make it WITH me, as
I'd be leaving Omaha (or Denver) to drive 4 hours to the middle of nowhere so I
couldn't risk having delayed bags. I was defeated. I accepted that I'd be stuck
at the Memphis airport for 5 hours, waiting on the afternoon flight to get me
to Omaha without enough time to get to McCook and make a show I was really
looking forward to (as I'd played there last year and had a great time) and I
slunk to a restaurant to get coffee, to wake my sleep-deprived and getting
cranky body. I called my manager to deliver the bad news. He made a joke:
"Well, you're going to Nebraska. Isn't there some
cropduster that can take you there?"
When I called the owners of the cafe I'd be playing to tell them
I wasn't going to be able to make the show, one of them said, "Maybe
there's a private pilot that can help out. I'll make some calls and get back to
you."
An hour later, I had the name of a pilot who'd be meeting me in
Omaha to take me on his private plane to McCook. Dick Trail. A stage name if
I'd ever heard of one. Dick Trail is John Wayne's best friend in a movie set in
Utah or Wyoming. Dick Trail is the trusty sidekick who's always got the
answers, has the fastest horse, the best gun, never leaves your side, will
bloody up some enemies for you. I'll never forget this name.
I got to Omaha to meet a smiling gentleman about my father's
age, in a red, white and blue button down who carried himself with the sturdy
deportment of an ex-military man, patriotic and steady. Dick Trail. He carried
my guitar, was friendly and direct. We went to collect my bags, which I'd been
informed were "certainly on the plane ma'am, I eyeballed them myself"
said the steward in memphis at Gate A16. However, no bags showed, and I was
back in the Kafka-esque nightmare. Dare I add to this saga that my monthly
cycle had begun and mine comes on like a hurricane: all gale force winds and
tempest storms, both physical and emotional and at this point, I ducked into
the ladies room to make a call to a friend to collapse emotionally. I blamed
the night before. I blamed Delta. I blamed myself for taking too much on, for
trying to do everything. I blamed my love life. I blamed my parents. I blamed
everyone and fought the darkness and splashed water on my face and walked
outside faking it. No gear. No merch. No clothes. No toilettries. And Mr. Trail
would be flying me to the middle of nowhere. I got 25% sassy and the Delta
baggage claim dude promised me it was coming in on the next flight and they'd
deliver it to McCook in the middle of the night, and Dick Trail offered his
address, this stranger who reminded me so much of my father, was taking me
under his, em, wing.
So we drove from the Omaha airport to the smaller private airport,
Dick pointed out Warren Buffett's hanger, and we went to another where his
Piper was lodged. And I almost fainted. I'm afraid of heights. Not all but
some. And I've got a small fear of flying, no matter that I fly all the time.
And I'm definitely a chickenshit when it comes to small planes. This would be
by far the smallest plane I would be in. A 2 seater (w/ 2 jump seats in the
back), Dick handed me a pair of clunky headphones w/ a mic and told me I'd be
co-piloting. He said, "you'll be getting your first flying lesson
today" and I was astonished. What? I said. Then he went onto tell me his
history. Born in 1937, graduate of the first Air Force Academy class, tours of
duty in Vietnam, a commercial pilot, a lifelong teacher of flying. He wasn't kidding.
I'd be working on this 1 hour 58 minute flight. There was no time for nerves.
Dick Trail was a man on a time frame. The engine started, the propellers
started and we were taxi'ing down the runway and I was learning immediately how
to steer with my feet and Dick took his feet off his pedals and allowed me to
steer us down the runway to our takeoff point. He gave me a few quick lessons
in reading the instruments, what was essential, what the feet control, what the
hands control, fuel gauge, etc. and vrooooom, the plane took off and we were up
there, in the sky, the blue blue sky, over the rolling green plains of
Nebraska, our shadow below us, up 3800 feet into the columns of cloudpuff. Dick
let go and I was steering the plane by myself. He pointed out the line of dust
that looks like a horizontal cloud but is really particles, the line where the
heat is captured. Told me of how thunderclouds form, how to read them, how to
read the air and the mists and the bumps of the sky. He pointed toward a tophat
cloud and said, "Go through it!" I said, "really?" he said,
'Yep" and then, I was pointing the plane directly at this large white
pufffield and we were INSIDE THE CLOUD and for a brief moment everything went
white and I couldn't see and then we were through to the other side and I let
out a 5 year old "Whoooop" and tears ran down my face. I'd never ever
ever even entertained a flying fantasy. Never had that in me. Never thought
about it. It wasn't on my bucket list. But there I was, piercing a cloud with this
small plane, coming through the mist and the blue of the sky burst open and the
ground below rolled by and I was floating on air, literally.
And so the hour and fifty-eight minutes went by and we followed
the North Platte River as it wound around the plains and Dick pointed out where
Lewis & Clark were and I imagined looking down at bountiful plains of
plenty with animals and grasses and no roads and no buildings. I watched the
sky change, I watched the ground go by, towns go by, and soon we were near McCook
and I was rocking the plane back and forth, rolling it down the descent,
comfortable now with the feel of the wingspan. We talked of history and life
and Dick asked me about my life as a musician and said, "Now see, we're
the lucky ones. We found our passion. Yours is music and mine is flying and
I've been flying my whole life" and I immediately thought I want to stay
in touch with this man and his family. And then, safe and sound on the ground,
I was whisked to the show, just in time, in the same grey-hued clothes I'd been
in all day, no makeup, not a brush on me to smooth my hair, no jewelry, nothing
fancy. No tuner or mic or DI. No set list. No anything but my bare face and my
unadorned guitar and a sold-out crowd of people waiting for me.
It might have been the best show of my life.
And the following day, today, I went back for my second lesson.
This time on a smaller plane. A champ. One that felt thinner and more
vulnerable, but more...I don't know...'sporty'. Like that scene in "Out of
Africa" where Meryl Streep is sitting in front of Robert Redford as he
flies her low over the Kenyan grounds, antelope herds below them, the shadow of
the plane trailing behind and her scarf waving in the wind. That was my plane.
We flew low over the grasses, the earth opening up in fissures, rolling hills
with crevices. We flew over creeks and lakes, flew over Dick's parents' house,
where he grew up, his elementary school, his house, his neighbors' house (where
we flew low and pretended to be landing only to bank upwards at the last
minute, laughing). We flew over trees and over bare earth and over water and up
to the sky and down again, low enough to see the sunflower fields and the
shadow always there, like a movie scene. I didn't close my mouth the whole
time: it was set somewhere between a laugh and a cry and sheer joy. That kind
of joy you got when you jumped on a trampoline or went on a roller coaster. And
today, I landed a plane. Three times. I also took off. Three times. I landed a
plane on a grass runway. Me. The girl who was afraid to fly. And Dick Trail
presented me last night at the show with my Pilot Log Book, signing for my
hours of my 2 lessons on the first page. I met his wife Ann and hugged her as
if she was my own family, as he'd told me stories of his great-grandparents
homesteading there in Nebraska and her own family's farm and their life
together and children and land and history. Mr. Trail's hangar has his Champ, a
wall of photos of his history, his first car (a 20's Model T), and looks about
as sacred a space as my music room with my guitars hanging on the wall, my
piano, my photos of inspiration leaning against windows and walls.
In the end, I never got my luggage. I still might not find it.
And there are things in there I need, but I spent two shows not thinking about
what I looked like or what I was going to play and instead enjoyed myself even
more in the moment. I laughed and stayed present. And just maybe I'll get home
and get rid of some things. In the end, I turned around to see the batallion of
strangers and friends following my plight and offering to help, or helping, or
just offering solace. I had strangers in a small town in Nebraska calling
friends and strangers helping me. And I had a stranger teach me something until
24 hours ago I thought wasn't essential in my life and now feels as natural as
breathing.
And as I was flying over the ground I thought of love and how
wonderful it is when it comes and fills your skin with breathing and no matter
the challenge of it, when it comes full like that and natural and fits in that
way that you just know it fits, that regardless of the circumstance, you
celebrate it and move toward it and allow. I remember when my Dad said to me,
"Life is short. Follow love." And I feel like in so many ways that's
what I am trying to do with my life, with my choices. How appropriate that a
man who reminds me of my hero Dad, Republican and strong-minded and patriotic
and funny and full of life, was the one to help me ride the sky.
The rain bursts above our heads in the highest part of the sky
and falls just a bit and evaporates before landing. Or changes into hail. The
rain goes its own way, making trails of cloud or dustspray, like curtains
against the blue. We think we have it all figured out, or at least we hope we
are in the query. And then something blindsides us. Or someone. Someone
unexpected. Someone we don't expect who washes in like a big tsunami and
changes everything and suddenly all plans are out the window and life
rearranges itself into something unrecognizable and sometimes unmanageable but
always always wonderful. And so it is with weather. And so it is with love. And
so it is with clouds.
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