All I wanted for Christmas was to get home to Canada for the holidays. Homesickness engulfed me. My husband of two years was a college student while I worked at McDonald’s to help pay our bills. Everything seemed wrong, from the lukewarm humidity of East Texas to the Chipmunks chirping “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” over the parking lot speakers where teenagers in yellow rain slickers sold evergreen trees and live mistletoe.
Having earned his private pilot’s license, Hubby hatched a scheme to fly us all the way home in a rented Grumman American Cheetah. Fuel was cheap in 1979, and arrangements were made.
Knowing my parents would worry themselves sick if they knew our plan, we decided to surprise them. Mom thought that I, the youngest of five, was about to be the first of her offspring to break Christmas Eve tradition by being absent from the family circle. How I looked forward to surprising everyone and enjoying all our traditional dishes like cabbage rolls, perogies, and roast turkey. I couldn’t wait to see how my nieces and nephews had grown.
December 23 arrived. My pilot filed his flight plan, which involved landing in South Dakota where his relatives could host us overnight. All went well that first day. I learned how to play navigator by reading the map and watching for beacons using VFR (Visual Flight Rules). I learned about ailerons, pitch, roll, and yaw. I enjoyed hearing Hubby talk to ground control using the phonetic alphabet.
We made a smooth landing and stayed with relatives as planned, my excitement increasing over surprising my family the next day. We’d easily arrive in time for the shock to wear off and for another two places to be set at the table before supper.
The next morning, however, our hearts sank. Thick fog covered everything, making take-off and landing impossible under VFR licensing. As much as I’d looked forward to some real winter weather, it was supposed to wait until we were safely home! Without his IFR rating (Instrument Flight Rules), Hubby was grounded until the fog cleared.
We weighed our options. We could borrow a car and make the nine-hour drive. Or we could hope conditions turned favorable soon and fly in less than half the time. The next day was Christmas. How long dare we wait?
So determined was I to arrive while my siblings were still gathered at my parents’ home on Christmas Eve, I talked Hubby into leaving the plane behind and driving. Not the glorious trip we’d imagined, but at least we’d get there.
By the time we rang the doorbell in Portage la Prairie, we’d missed supper. But the shock on Mom’s face was worth every effort, although she had wondered why we weren’t answering our phone in Texas. We later learned we’d never have been able to take off in the plane that day or the next.
We enjoyed a traditional Christmas holiday in a country where Christmas looks, feels, and sounds like it’s supposed to: the sharp crunch of snow underfoot, children bundled into snowsuits like overstuffed teddy bears, and wisps of frost clinging to men’s mustaches.
After another day’s drive back to South Dakota, we were able to get airborne and return the little plane to Texas, even taking a side trip to visit friends in Wisconsin.
The adventure of two spunky kids amazes me now, but what thrills me more is God’s grace in keeping us safe and getting this homesick girl home for Christmas.
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| Jon with the plane he learned to fly in 1979. |
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