Time Traveling Through the Clouds

A child’s ray of light brightens my inclement weathered heart

This summer, I had the great honor of taking Grace, my eight-year-old granddaughter, on vacation. It was her first time on a plane. She was ecstatic!

Ready with our seatbelts snuggly buckled, the pilot taxied slowly toward the runway. And then the plane stopped as the pilot announced, “We’re clear for takeoff.”

Grace’s eyes grew wider as the plane gained momentum — faster and faster — and faster! And then the loud squeal of her delight filled the plane’s cabin as Grace experienced her first taste of that magical airborne moment.

I wanted her enchantment to last longer. So, after we ascended above the canvas of clouds, I asked, “Wouldn’t you love to jump in and roll around in those fluffy clouds?” And this was her answer — “Oh Grandma, don’t you know that clouds are just floating water?”

She settled into her seat, donned her wireless headphones, and swiped her tablet. I knew the story of my first time flying couldn’t compete with her action-packed video heroes.

Sadly, Grace’s years of awe and wonder are coming to a close — where clouds become a simple fact of science, and grandma’s stories seem outdated, mostly irrelevant.

I settled into my seat, closed my eyes, and silently revisited the memories of my first flight —

I couldn’t believe it — I hit the nine-year-old jackpot. I was going for my first airplane ride to stay with Dad for a whole week! My devoted wishing on stars had paid off — as Jiminy Cricket promised,

When you wish upon a star Makes no difference who you are Anything your heart desires Will come to you

I’d finally have Dad’s undivided attention — just the two of us hanging out in his bachelor pad, as he jokingly called it. He couldn’t be the evil man that Mom bitterly referred to as “your — father.”

She often told me I was better off without him, but I silently disagreed and was haunted by unnamed emotions of guilt laced with forbidden rage and desire. I somehow felt wrong or even responsible for my mother’s unrelenting heartache and scathing words.

My mom walked me onto the plane and asked the stewardess to take good care of me for the hour flight. I was traveling alone. You could do that in 1964, along with leaving your car and house unlocked. It was a time when the flight crew treated everyone like they were first-class passengers — especially kids.

The stewardess gave me a wing-shaped lapel pin with the United Airlines logo. She even introduced me to the pilot in the cockpit! At last, the moment came — we were ready for take-off. My spaceship fantasy was about to come true. I glued my nose to the window as we accelerated to a speed faster than my beloved hero, Superman.

As the wheels tucked into the plane’s belly just like a bird—I was flying! We tore through the clouds and leveled off. I could no longer see the landscape below, only the marshmallow layer of a white cottony floor below us. I imagined how wonderful it would feel to roll and romp upon these heavenly clouds—elated—carefree— forever happy.

Dad was waiting for me as soon as I stepped off the plane. Ever since he moved 350 miles away to Seattle when I was six, I only saw him a couple of times a year. Long-distance calls were expensive, and he spent most of the time arguing with Mom. But now, I would have him all to myself!

He took me to his small studio apartment, which overlooked the Seattle Center housing the Space Needle. And I also could see the roof of the Coliseum, where the Beatles were going to perform on August 21, 1964 — the week I was there!

My love for the Beatles had nothing to do with romance. I adored them because they made me feel joyful. They cradled my clouded spirit with their buoyant rhythms and familiar voices. When I heard them, I felt transported from the shabby grayness of my childhood.

Honestly, I think they saved me.

Dad told me the concert tickets were too expensive, and he didn’t want to be around a bunch of mindless screaming women. He couldn’t understand why The Beatles meant so much to me and chalked up my devotion to a case of a girl’s puppy love crush.

I sat on Dad’s sofa and stared at the coliseum roof that entire evening. Like a hawk waiting for prey, I saw a helicopter fly by and imagined they were in it. Maybe they saw me. I even waved — just in case.

My dad was a forty-year-old bachelor who smoked a pipe and painted signs for Sears before the digital era. He enamored a couple of college-aged women in his building with his clever wit and resonant voice. They were friendly, visited frequently, and were about the same age as my twenty-year-old brother.

We didn’t go to the Space Needle, that was too expensive. He said he was living from paycheck to paycheck. But he did take me in his big boat to go crabbing on Puget Sound. And I remember his apartment stinking of boiled seaweed for days after cooking our catch. He got mad at me for feeling nauseous and throwing up.

When I got home and told my mom about my vacation, she ranted, “How can he afford a boat and tell you he’s poor?” And when I told her about the lovely women he introduced me to— well, need I say more?

Unlike Mom, I wasn’t upset with him because I came home with a new Beatle album, “A Hard Day’s Night,” he’d bought me at Sears. I’ve always wondered if this rare memory with my dad would be more treasured if Mom hadn’t darkened it with her black crayon lens— destroying my rose-colored clouds of perception. After all, he was my one and only — fill-in-the-blank — father.

On our return flight, Grace poked me, “Grandma, wake up. We’re about to land! I can’t wait to see Mom and Dad!”

After we returned home, Grace talked non-stop to her family. They listened intently and told her how much they missed and loved her. She didn’t carry the burden of choosing which parent to love or hate. Or learn how to flatten her feelings to prevent others from spewing words of fiery ash.

I am so grateful for my granddaughter’s happy life.

I sat on the porch and gazed at the clouds. “Grace, come here! — you have to see this. Look, that cloud looks just like an elephant!”

She shouted at her brother, “Jon, come quick — can you see that? It’s an elephant!”

Ten-year-old Jon replied with great confidence, “Oh, Grace, you know that clouds are made when water vapor turns into water droplets — nothing more.”

But Jon looked up and, with a surge of excitement, exclaimed, “Oh look, now it’s morphed into a horse!”

We all giggled and laughed as I hugged and kissed them. This moment was better than any metaphorical cloud story I could ever imagine.