Authors: Sarah Solmonson
Taking Flight (19 page)
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.
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 engine.
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.
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
[email protected]
.
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.
Sarah Solmonson lives in Excelsior, Minnesota with her husband and two dogs. Sarah has her B.A. in English Literature, Language and Theory from Augsburg College and has been writing books since kindergarten. (Sarah considers My Daddy’s Airplane, written in crayon at the age of 7, to be her first draft of this memoir.) When she isn’t writing, Sarah can be found watching scary movies, enthusiastically eating quesadillas and getting her groove on in the dance studio.
www
.facebook.com/sarahsolmonson
###