Yard Stick
I've been thinking about my Gramma's advice, and the lack of contact with my birth daughter, and my fear of knocking on customer's doors, and this morning all of those events seem connected, a chain of custody of the messages I carry through this life.
Six years ago I made a trip to the midwest, and flew home from St. Louis in a plane chock full of vacation people. I sat next to a window over the wing, and watched the silver arch fade from view as we leaped into the clouds. My mind was tired, I remember this, and I stared at the layer of angry clouds wondering if we would miss the storm.
An old man sat to my right. He wore a brown knit vest over a pin-striped shirt. He had rich curly hair the color of the clouds, and he smelled of cologne and garlic. He tried to make small talk with me but I pretended to sleep, my red runny nose on the cold scratched window, arms tightly around a red suede purse filled with tissues and cherry cold medication and lemon honey cough drops.
These details are fresh, beyond fresh, more than memories, as if someone took a sharp kitchen knife and carved them into my brain, because in that simple moment, the plane lurched and fell, how many hundreds of feet I don't know, but fell out of the clouds and toward the ground and the cabin began to fill with smoke. The plane leveled again, and it struck me that no one made a sound, we sat in wild-eyed fear, my hands griping my purse. The captain's voice filled the plane. He sounded afraid and full of panic.
"Sorry folks, we have a situation up here in the cockpit and we're taking the plane back to the airport. We're going to turn around and fly at a low altitude. The flight attendants will show you what to do. Please follow their instructions exactly. I repeat, we are turning around and taking the plane back to St. Louis."
I remember these words verbatim, like a prayer you recite every Sunday in church, like the first love letter you receive. The plane spat and curved and I heard people praying for Jesus to save them. I looked at the man next to me, the old man I tried to avoid, and he smiled at me and took my right hand.
"Don't worry, honey. I've been through worse. The captain will get us home safely. Now tell me a little about yourself. Where do you live?"
We held hands and chatted, the way you should chat with someone on a plane, about mundane things, my children, his wife, our favorite restuarants. I stopped hearing the prayers around me, almost stopped feeling the rumble of the plane, almost stopped smelling the acrid scent of the smoke. The flight attendants walked through the cabin, stopping at each row to tighten belts and demonstrate the landing crash pose. The old man and I took our crash position, leaned forward, one arm hugging our body, the other hand in hand with each other.
The old man was right. The captain got us home. The plane skidded to a stop somewhere past the runway, somewhere in a field of tall grass, and we exited the plane quickly while fire fighters rushed with hose to investigate. I looked for the old man but couldn't find him. I wanted to thank him, and tell him he saved my life. The pilot didn't, not really. He did.
These moments of death seem to measure my life, maybe everyone's life. I've thought of that old man when I've knocked on strange doors selling Avon, and my Gramma's words to be smart mix with his words of being simple, give me hope that all things, Avon and kids you don't yet know, will be alright.
8:15:25 AM 
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