Catapulted

The pilot seemed to enjoy himself on takeoff. There was a little more thrust involved than I remember from this past summer’s flights. I feel like I am being catapulted from Chattanooga to Cincinnati in a giant arc. I suppose it’s not much different from being catapulted, except that someone is steering the load.

Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)

As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.

I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.

But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.

I really wish I were there.

It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.

I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.

I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.

I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.

Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.

Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.

Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.

It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.

I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.

Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.

I will call her then.