On the first trip home again, home again (to parents and Diego grandmother), night fell beyond my right-hand wing, and I saw the exhaust gasses flaming outside the howling motor. Ding ding ding I rang for the stewardess (that was what we called flight attendants back then, my children).
The wing is on fire, the engine is on fire! I said.
"Oh no," she assured me, "that is perfectly normal. Remember how in the daylight you could see puffs of smoke?"
Yes.
"Well, now in the dark you can also see the bits of flame."
Oh, well, all right; thank you.
I will go back to the lounge at the rear of the airliner. A lady and several gentlemen are drinking back there. I get a soda. Oh my, your parents will meet you, yes, isn't that sweet?
The motors howl and growl and rumble outside. Soon the jet age, and turboprops, will follow. The trip will be cut from four hours to only one. But the windows will be much smaller, and the ground far, far below. Cars and trucks will shrink from the size of army ants to the size of baby fleas.
Years later I shall think it all a waste of gasoline, and willingly sign the petition to create a Green Party in California. Because of Florida, Bush will be elected.
1. My grandmother of the north
4. I think I was three when we moved
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