FLYING         4/2/15

     In 1945 my brother was working for the Washington Post. He flew from Washington, D.C. to San Francisco to cover the conference that was to establish the United Nations. It was during this period that air travel in America was becoming popular, but until Ben's flight no one in our family had ever flown, not one of us dared.  Dad was an electrical engineer for the New York Central Railroad.   “Flying is dangerous, the train is comfy and safe,” he said.  When brother Ben persuaded the pilot to tip his wings over our house, I was delighted; Dad was singularly unimpressed.  I knew my chance to fly would come. Within the year, it did.

     Erv Herman and I were married that year in October; we traveled by train from New York to Petosky, Michigan for a fun honeymoon.  The slow moving train suited our mood perfectly.  We delayed our return to reality as long as possible. Of course, we ran late for Erv’s return to classes at seminary and I was expected back at work, but we had to fly.  Neither of us had ever flown.  Together we found courage and without family blessings, (our four parents were nervous and angry) we flew home to Cincinnati.  For us it was a wonderful trip; we decided flying was our way to go.

     It would be four years before we had another chance.  Frankly we could not afford to travel very far.  When Erv was ordained as a rabbi in 1949, we hitched a ride with friends to visit family in Baltimore.  From there we were to interview for a congregation in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  (Yes, in those days the Rabbi’s wife was considered an asset or a liability, we were scrutinized.)  We decided it was our chance to fly; the congregation had offered to pay for our flight from Baltimore.  We experienced another glorious flight.

     On the way back, however, everything changed.  We found ourselves aloft in the midst of an electrical thunderstorm. I expressed my fears without embarrassment.  My sweetheart asked “where is the lightening,  you are too scared?”  “The lightening is right next to me,”  I pointed my trembling finger to the window.  Yes, I was so frightened that I did not fly again for seventeen years!  Every time I dropped my husband off at the airport, prior to a business trip, I suffered a panic attack.

    By the time our two children were in their early teens, an occasion arose that made me face those fears directly. We had moved from New York to California, drove west.  After a year on the West Coast the kids begged to go back to visit with friends.  I knew that they had to get the New York scene out of their system. The thought of two teens for three or four days alone on a train boggled my mind.  I had to consider sending them by air.  And, I did!  Erv was in New York on business and would meet them at the airport and their friends offered bed, board and transportation.

     I joined them in their excitement, helped them pack, took them to the airport and waved as they navigated the jet-way. After the plane took off, I stood in the middle of the lounge, weighed down with guilt, “Omigosh, I'm afraid to fly and I just put my precious kids on an airplane-that makes no sense!!!”  They landed safely, had a great time, returned to California in good spirits, stopped pining for New York and told me how wonderful it was to fly.

     The next time Erv planned a business trip, I said I wanted to go along.  I knew he was flying.  I did not sleep the night before. I trembled at check-in, I refused to look at the ground when we took off.  Suddenly in mid flight, I relaxed and began to enjoy the altitude and the speed and said, “This is great, I think I love it!”  I have calmly chosen air travel ever since; I forget to be afraid.  I might be a railroad man’s daughter, but flying is more fun.  Dad would be 133 this year; he would shake his head in amazement and prayerfully would bless our travels, keeping his railroad thoughts to himself:  “You flew alone at 92 years of age you must be joking, I do not believe you!!!”