PROLOGUE

Lately, faded memories of my mother and her flying have been coming back to me, sketchy at first and dragged to the surface, then fuller and rising unbidden. Those memories were tucked away when childhood was left behind, and replaced with jobs, car repairs, a husband, a family. But now, stopping on the side of Route 38 where Tew-Mac Airport once bustled with activity, I stare at a row of newly-built condominiums -- and with very little effort I can imagine them gone and see again the blacktop runway.
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On the left and right of the runway are parallel taxi ways, their paved surface showing bumps, cracks and weeds befitting a less important use. Planes neatly lined up along the outside of each taxi way, noses pointed in, form a gauntlet that encloses the blacktop and scruffy grass strips in between. To my immediate left a row of people lean against a chain link fence, eating ice cream and watching the planes come and go; one at the far end of the taxi way, another 1,000 feet high in the landing pattern, and yet another waiting its turn in a holding position before takeoff, cycling the engine. A whoosh of air ruffles my hair as a plane glides overhead to touch down for a landing.

There are still some things I want to do before Mom returns from giving a flying lesson. Skipping along the dividing fence that separates the end of the runway from Route 38, a thin line of patchy weeds pretending to be grass at my feet, I joyfully head toward the diner. Mom doled out some spare change earlier in the day, and I've held on to it until boredom, hunger, and suspense drives me to spend it on a soft serve vanilla ice cream.

Now with fingers sticky from the dripping mess, I traipse toward the one-room, one-story airport terminal where a little lavatory next to the counter separates workspace from customer space. Washing my hands with a drop or two of water and leaving stickiness on all the door handles I touch, I casually trail my hand along the countertop as I make my way back outside.

I stick my worn Converse® sneakers with the rubber toes into the holes in the chain link fence, and walk my way back toward the diner, holding precariously to the flexing top. Jackpot! I jump down to pick up a Bazooka® bubble gum comic strip lying on the ground, that I read and put in my pocket. Imagining I am Harriet the Spy in the book by Louise Fitzhugh, I sit on the edge of a red painted picnic table and listen in on the conversations of strangers.
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As a little latchkey girl at the airport, I thought I knew more about flying than most. The independence I had while waiting for my mother helped to give me that attitude. However, most of my time was spent not learning about airplanes and flying, but waiting.

Waiting for Saturdays and summer days, when the airport owner's daughter would come and play with me. Waiting for my mother to part with some change so I could have a special, sugary treat of soda, gum or ice cream. Waiting for her to finish working, so we could go home. Waiting that was interminable as a child.

As an adult I can see how quickly the time flew by. My memories can conjure up the images of what this place once looked like, but cannot hold those images for long. An American flag snapping to attention brings me back to the present. It has replaced the orange windsock which hung high atop a telephone pole, and sod has been laid over the dry dirt that I used to draw in with my fingers and accidentally smudge across my face. Not far away from the glaring sign for the golfing community -- in the McDonalds parking lot -- a car alarm is alternately beeping, then honking.

With change there comes gradual forgetfulness. Who will remember the dreams my mother forged here and brought to fulfillment? There is much I never knew about her, and more than I can recall, so I am compelled to ask -- who was this woman I call Mom?