It was the best of flights, it was the worst of flights
If you are an antique airplane enthusiast, you have probably heard of the Casa Grande Fly-In, which takes place every year just south of Phoenix, Arizona. I'd always wanted to go, and in 1987 I had my chance. Getting there was fun, though not noteworthy. I took the airlines to Phoenix, and wouldn't you know, another passenger somewhere in my vicinity happened to have a tie with little airplanes on it. I started a conversation, and by the time we deplaned, I had a ride with the nice guy in his rented car to the Fly-In, where he was also headed.
The Fly-In was everything one could ask for. Gorgeous weather, beautiful desert scenery, lots of colorful antiques, and best of all, a gaggle of old pilots who sat around telling stories! When I did get home a week later, I told Bill I had a dozen new boyfriends, and they were all over 60!
The fun part was the getting home part. My friend Art was there with his new fiancée, Betsy. With him was his Cessna 180, a four-seater metalized bird - not my favorite, but good for getting places when you want to go faster than the cars on the Interstate. When we took off that cool Sunday or Monday morning, the air was crisp and clean and still. We leveled off at around 1000 feet and the desert landscape was absolutely breathtaking! I though, wow, this is the best flight I've ever, ever had! Toward the New Mexico border, however, the air started getting a bit bumpy. Which has a direct mathematical relationship to my state of equilibrium. A rather negative mathematical relationship.
By the time we made our first stop, which was at the end of the universe in Animas, New Mexico, I was rather green in the gills, so to speak. But our friends John and Louise Thurmond welcomed us warmly and we had a super visit. Art announced his and Betsy's engagement, and we were hosted as only John and Louise can. John, whom we knew from Justin Times Airfield, had bought a fairly large amount of desert and erected two hangers, a workshop, a huge log house, and put in a runway. Yup, there at the end of the universe just outside Animas, New Mexico. Once my family and I drove there during a visit to my parents who lived in Las Cruces. In the center of town is the "Nightmare Café". Whoa. No, I'll spare you, the reader, from any reference to the restaurant at OK I'll stop there.
Back to Art and Betsy. We concluded our visit and headed out to the Cessna. As we took off, Art told us there was a Jenny on a stick near the Mexican border not far from El Paso. I thought that would be fun to see. Famous last thoughts…. The air was by now so bumpy I began the long, downward path to true air-sickness that only those who have truly been there can really, truly understand. The symptoms begin their slow, pathetic downward spiral until they spin out of control leaving the unfortunate victim in a state of suspended vegetation. The pressure in the ears, the strange otherworldly feeling in the brain, the gasping for air (“Betsy, open your window, Shirley needs air”), the steady breathing while reciting “I am not going to barf” a thousand times like Bart Simpson's sentences on the blackboard, the request for a barf bag, just in case. (“Betsy, hand Shirley that bag there”)
At this point, (and for the next foreseeable future) there's that “Gosh if we were to have a mid-air collision, we would crash and I would get to see Jesus and that would be nice“ feeling, because you really don't see the advantage of living or the disadvantage of dying. These two diametrically opposed worldviews sort-of meld into the WAY BEYOND of ONENESS. And I was thinking, “this is the worst flight I've ever, ever had” So just about when I'd filled the first barf bag with John and Louis's hospitality, Art swerved downward (please no more negative G's) to buzz the Jenny on the Stick, a JN-4, painted all one color, and sitting atop a pole near, as I mentioned, the Mexican border. This was not my idea of fun, after all. I took a furtive glimpse out the window, my eyes barely peeking above the consolation of the motion sickness container, just so I could say, “Yes, I did see the Jenny on the Stick.”
I was working on the second bag when Art announced that we were to land at West, some airfield just east of El Paso. OK so we landed and Art and Betsy hopped off the plane like this was some joy ride or something. I was shaking and clutching the bag, seemingly immobile and in that particular state of vegetation I mentioned earlier. Must have been fifteen minutes later when Art came back and said “Uhh, aren't you going to get out?” And I must have asked for help. Not sure of much here. I know that I did say, “Thanks for the ride, this is my stop. I'm getting off here.” Art accompanied me to the office and there was a couch. My barf bag and I settled down for a while. When the plane was refueled and Art and Betsy were done with whatever else they did there, they said goodbye and they took off into the wild blue yonder. They were going to follow the Rio Grande for a long distance before turning east toward Dallas and Justin.
I tried calling my parents. Not home. You know, the ones that lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. In the beautiful house way up highway 70 toward the Las Cruces airport, with the breathtaking view of the entire city, the mountains, the sky, oh wow I love that house. But they weren't home. I asked about a bus that might take me to Las Cruces. As luck (in my case blessing) would have it, there happened to be someone there who was traveling by car (thank the Lord for cars) to Anthony, which is between Las Cruces and El Paso. I took the back seat. Might still have been clutching that second bag. In any case, the guy was nice enough, but wanted to engage me in a lively conversation about public school curriculum. I wanted to chill out. Concentrate on being thankful for the ride and on the fact that I was not in the airplane fantasizing about mid-air collisions. Please don't make me talk about public school curriculum!!! But I had to be polite. Not sure if I was coherent, but I guess I was polite. The nice man dropped me off at a fast-food joint, which had a public telephone. I tried my folks. Not home. I looked up friends of theirs in the phone book. Not home. Hmmm… I tried waiting at the fast food joint trying not to look like an airsick homeless person with nowhere to hang out. Thirty minutes later I reached my folks' friends. They were very nice, and said they'd keep trying to reach my parents for me. Not sure the details now, but my folks finally did arrive and took me to their wonderful home. And there was a couch. Did I mention how nice that house is? So anyway, my folks did not ask me about public school curriculum. Or much of anything else. They let me linger right there on the couch for the rest of the day.
Next morning was bright and sunny, well, every day is bright and sunny in Las Cruces, and to celebrate we drove to the El Paso/Juarez border and walked across to go shopping! On the way my dad and I went into the AAA office and booked an (airline!) flight for my trip home that evening
Sometime later I met up with Art at a Fly-In. He told me the trip along the Rio Grande was very bumpy. And I have a coffee mug from the Casa Grande 1987 Fly-In, which I treasure.