Watching Daddy
Get Off The Plane
The airliners in those days still landed at Tulsa Municipal Airport, north of town, a mustard-colored, cathedral-vaulted, Art Deco monument to hurried footsteps, frog-throated loudspeakers, joyous helloes and subdued goodbyes, and the pulse-quickening rumble and roar of arriving and departing airplanes.
It was a fine building, of immense proportions and magnificent echoes, built (so I later realized) along the lines of a railroad station -- because when it was built in 1928, railroad stations were the only examples of mass-transportation terminals that architects in the nascent air-travel industry had to go by.
Meeting Daddy was a simple affair: My mother and I would park our old blue-and-white Buick right in front of the airport. walk through the revolving front door, across the bustling center rotunda, and though the glass door at the back, a door guarded only by a "To Planes" sign painted overhead.
We'd stand outdoors, right on the gusty tarmac, along with a huddle of other folks either waiting to board their flights, or, like us, meet someone getting off.
Finally, down at the far end of the runway, the sun would glint off the big, four-engine, triple-tailed Super Constellation, as it set down with a chirp of blue smoke onto a shimmering midsummer mirage-puddle, and taxi toward the terminal; as the whine of the Connie's four powerful turboprop engines got closer and shriller and louder, I'd have to cover my young ears against the noise.
Then, the pilot would deftly pivot the ship 90 degrees in one, swift move, the propellers would kick up one last swirl of dust and trash before shuddering to a stop, and the ground crew would rush the plane like a NASCAR pit crew -- some hustling to get the baggage doors open, others jockeying the little rolling stairway with American Airlines' double-A-and-eagle-wings crest painted on the top panels up to the shiny fuselage.
Finally, the cabin door would open, and a stewardess (as we called them then) would step out to help the de-planing passengers cross the threshold from sky to ground, as it were -- smiling and thank-you-for-flying-with-American-ing, then as now.
Some passengers would simply hurry down the steps and vanish into the terminal, others would stop for a moment at the top of the steps, scan the crowd on the ground for a special face, shading their eyes against the sudden glare of sun-washed concrete, then smile and wave.
And, of course, my little toddler eyes would be glued to that shadowed opening in the side of the plane, which only minutes before had been somewhere above the clouds -- the air even yet redolent with the funk of high-octane exhaust -- watching other people's grandmas and grandpas, husbands and wives, friends and co-workers emerge, one by one, pause for a moment, take a breath of fresh air, and head down the stairs, until, finally, at long last ...
... "There he is!" I'd squeal in unbridled four-year-old delight, "Daddy! Daddy! Hi, Daddy!" as my father emerged, into the sunlight, one hand carrying his briefcase, the other anchoring his ever-present hat against the brisk Oklahoma breeze. "What'd you bring me?" (Oh, I was a spoiled little brat!)
Why am I telling you all this? I'm not entirely sure myself.
Maybe it's just my way of remembering that in the innocent days before terrorists and hijackings and sky marshals and metal detectors -- before crumbling office towers and exploding jetliners over breakfast -- before the flight to a family reunion became the front line in a sinister new war -- before air travelers and their loved ones exchanged fond, nervous hugs and kisses at a "Ticketed Passengers Only" checkpoint far, far from where the planes actually landed ...
... There was once a time when little boys could watch their daddies get off airplanes.
