Solo Flight

by Donna Poole

So many things signal the back-to-school season. Here in Michigan, the slant of the sun comes from farther south; the fireflies are gone where good lightning bugs go, and it’s quiet outside. Sumac leaves are just beginning to redden. Yellow buses pick up kindergarten children who are wearing new sneakers and backpacks, and moms wipe away tears as their little ones take their first solo flights.

I can’t remember my first day of kindergarten. I don’t know who walked me to school or who my teacher was. I have only one memory of my time in that school. I wore a fuzzy white jacket to school in the morning, but it was warm when school ended. I stood on some steep cement steps, held the jacket over one arm, and clung to an iron railing. Somehow, I dropped my beautiful jacket and watched with tears in my eyes as thousands—it seemed to me—of bigger kids poured out of school and trampled my beautiful jacket underfoot as they ran down the stairs.

Finally, my big sister Eve, seven years older, appeared in the crowd.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I couldn’t speak; I pointed at my jacket.

“Why didn’t you just pick it up?”

And then with a true hero’s bravery she reached between the herd of thundering feet, grabbed my jacket, took my hand, and helped me down the stairs. I must have had short legs, because those stairs were terrifyingly steep, but with Eve holding my hand, I could do anything.

We moved half-way through kindergarten, and I had to go to another school. I remember two things about my first day. The teacher plunked down a small cardboard carton of milk and said, “In this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.”

I opened my milk, put in the straw, and saw it. A dead fly was floating on top. But in this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.

I drank that milk until there was just a tiny drop left at the bottom with the dead fly lying in it. Would it be enough? Would the teacher make me drink the fly too? I remember the relief I felt when she picked up my little carton and never glanced at it. I didn’t have to drink the fly.

Then it was play time. I’d been noticing a huge playhouse built out of giant-sized Lincon Logs. I couldn’t wait to see inside. I’d barely bent over to look when another child pushed me back.

 “She can’t come in here. She’s a new kid.”

“Yeah! She’s a new kid. She can’t come inside our playhouse.”

I stood frozen, telling my feet to go back to my desk, but they wouldn’t move.

Then a little girl with dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes took my hand. “She can come in here. She’s my friend now, and I say she can play with us.”

Instantly I had a whole classroom full of new friends, but my best friend until we moved again was that little girl with the dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes, Maureen O’Riley. I’ll never forget her. I lost her in our many moves.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

I took a solo flight of my own today. I went for a short walk alone outside for the first time in three years. Three years of cancer treatments can leave an older person weak and unsteady, but I’ve been working to get stronger.

John was in the yard doing some chores when I took my walking stick and headed down the driveway. He saw me.

“Hey! Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be doing that by yourself!”

“I think I can, honey. I really want to.”

“Okay, but don’t go far. Only walk to that next driveway up there, okay?”

I nodded. It felt a little scary walking on uneven ground, just me and my walking stick with no one’s arm to hold, but it felt exhilarating too. Walking down our dirt road, just God and I, used to be my favorite thing.

It was a hot, humid morning, but the breeze felt wonderful on my face. There was no traffic; there seldom is. Like most September mornings, it was quiet. I’d forgotten how I love the sounds of silence. A few of the maple leaves are turning; I saw one on the ground and stopped to take a picture.

A voice from far behind me called, “Are you okay?”

I laughed. “I’m fine, honey. Keep working. I just stopped to take a picture.”

The road called my name and suddenly I realized I’d passed the driveway where I’d promised to turn around. I wanted to keep going, but I didn’t. I headed back; I’d gone such a short distance, so I was surprised at how exhausted I was.

Suddenly a young woman with dark curls and beautiful brown eyes came hurrying toward me. “I couldn’t find you in the house, and I couldn’t find you outside. Dad said you were taking a walk.”

“I went to kindergarten,” I said. “I went all by myself.”

“Did you?” She laughed and didn’t ask any more questions. After all these years, she’s used to her mom. “I need to go to the garden,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”

She offered her arm, and I took it.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

And if the ones taking solo flights are old ladies who walk a little too far to get safely home alone but don’t want to admit it, I hope they have someone come find them, offer an arm, and help them get home by way of a beautiful garden.

The End

Photo credit for gladiolus: Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author