It's a Boy!

I’ve never really dreamed of saying that…”It’s a Boy!” And as the father of three daughters I’m often asked if I wished that we would have tried one more time for a son. And my answer has always been the same…we were never “trying” for anything in particular. In fact, knowing now the precious nature of each of our daughters, had we been trying, I hope that we would have been trying for girls…perhaps we were.

That being said after nearly twenty-five years of fatherhood, and with little effort on my part, it looks as if we may finally begin buying a few boy toys. And Denise and I are indescribably thrilled about that. On September 19, 2009, exactly nine months from today, my male kindred will be delivered in the form of a son-in-law as our eldest daughter Jenna has pledged to wed Matthew Golz in a ceremony in Seattle. I couldn’t be happier for them both, nor more proud as the father of this future bride.

The news came to Denise and me a week ago. And although I remain somewhat guilt ridden, Jenna and Matt claim to laugh as they recall Jenna’s first sharing of engagement news with her parents.

We were at the “after party” following my office’s Christmas dinner when my cell phone rang. Habitually since our daughters were quite young, I’ve kept my cell phone close in the event that they need me. Fathers love that feeling of “needy children”…at least I do. And I hope it’s of some comfort to them to know that their “help line” is open 24/7. But I digress…my cell phone rang. Stepping outside to escape the clatter of the Holiday cheer, I remember the conversation verbatim:

Me: “Hello?”
Jenna: “Hey Dad”.
Me: “JENNA! Hey, what are you up to?”
Jenna: "Oh, I don’t know, what are two you doing?”
Me: "We’re at my office Christmas party and I just stepped outside to answer the phone. "
Jenna: “Is Mom right there?”
Me: "No, she’s inside. What’s up?”
Jenna: “Matt and…”
Santa Claus: “Ho-Ho-Ho. Merry Christmas.”

Me: (No words just dead air on the phone as I instinctively lowered the phone from my ear and tried to register the reality of a Santa Claus approaching up the drive in the cold of the night.)
Jenna: "Dad?'
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HO!'
Me: “Chuck?" (Chuck Olson is my jolly neighbor who's currently dressed in a Santa suit)
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO!"
Me: "Chuck? What are you doing here?"
Jenna: "Dad?"
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO! Merry Christmas!"
Me: "Jenna, Santa’s here...gotta go.” CLICK.
Santa: "Ho-Ho-HOOO!"
Me: "Santa, you should probably go inside."
Santa: "Merry Christmas!"

Yes, I had just unwittingly hung up on my daughter during perhaps the most important phone call of her adult life. Doah!

A few minutes later I again stepped outside and returned Jenna’s call.

Me: “Jenna, sorry about that. What was it you called about?”

The balance of our conversation was predictably joyous and befitting the great news and the holiday season.

A Wing and a Prayer

Sixty-five minutes into our fourteen minute flight, and after several failed attempts at approach in the brightness of snowfall illuminated by landing lights, the crew finally gave in and the plane finally gave trust, climbed and banked steeply. Darkness again fell over the wings and the windows and the passengers as we aborted our landing and ascended into the hollow of the cold winter's night.

Squeezing the PA the attendant acknowledged the existence of a "situation". What a dreadful term to use on a plane. It's filled with so many secrets. He explained that sensors indicated that our left landing gear had failed to deploy. Although it may very well be locked into its proper position, there is no means for confirmation and therefore we must trust the sensors and presume to land without it. And he stated that we were now returning to Chicago where a runway was being prepared for our emergency landing. The last words hung in the air like a silent echo and their lingering presence served to uncloak all secrecy surrounding the now seemingly innocuous term “situation”.

The distance from South Bend, Indiana to Chicago O'Hare would be traversed in under 20 minutes. And except for the cyclical sounds of thrusting and sighing engines burning off fuel, there was nothing currently to witness but the terrible isolation brought upon us by a combination of cold and darkness and silence...and circumstance.

As we approached the lights of the Second City an attendant ushered the forward and aft passengers toward the center section. The structural skeleton of the wing supports, he explained, being the strongest part of the aircraft and thus offering the most protection for its most precious cargo. A woman a few rows ahead moved across the aisle to fill the empty seat beside her teen aged daughter. Another attendant prepared exit row passengers immediately ahead of me for various evacuation scenarios. I thought to myself that this was perhaps the first time in his career where everyone appeared genuinely attentive to his instructions. All of the exits were identified and assigned numbers representing their respective order of egress priority. I reached for my coat and slipped it on. A woman behind me began to sob. The stranger next to her said that he was scared too but it would be ok. The seat to my right remained steadfast and unshaken-empty as it was. Perhaps it was not so empty as my mortal eyes would have had me believe. And I trusted that to be the case.

We descended out of the darkness and back into the brillent reflectance of the snowfall within our light beams. The lights of the city neared and I snugged my belt. The attendant, on PA now, repeatedly barked his orders for position and bracing. Then there were flashes of runway lights. The tail dropped and tipped starboard favoring our trusty right landing gear. Feet flat. Head down. Depressurization. Bracing. Bracing. Deep breath. Impact.

The plane hopped along on its right landing gear until gravity and inertia and friction equalized themselves into steadily rolling wheels. The nose dropped next, and as its wheel touched the plane continued at full speed precariously balanced upon two points. Then cautiously, and yet to brake, the pilot eased the left wing downward, feeling ever so gently for our troubled landing gear as our plane continued to propelled itself ahead on the lengthy runway...nothing.

The showering sparks were magnificent and ferocious as wing met concrete at 200 mph. They silently pierced the Chicago night filling focused eyes and prayerful minds and seized the breath from every living soul within the plane, as well I’m certain as those on the ground watching dutifully from their respective positions of readiness.

Then came the brakes...or "brake" as it were. Our leftward lean was pronounced and braking was slow but steady as we slid to a stop. Straight ahead, right down the middle. We bore the entirety of our burden upon a front wheel, a right landing gear, a left wingtip and many concentrated prayers.

Evacuation was remarkably swift and orderly despite our "situation" and its now steeply side-sloping floor. We assembled as a group in the cold beside one of many emergency vehicles and counted off. All present and accounted. Then we stood and witnessed the rest of the excitement from a glorious vantagepoint surrounded by the awesome sights and sounds of flashing lights and scurrying firemen and the many moving planes on a brightly lit runway seemingly in the center of the World's second busiest airport. Whoa!
The young pilot stood alone in the terminal. I approached and reached out my hand in appreciation. He extended a still trembling hand. "Nice job tonight." I said. "Thanks...I'm still shaking but we're all fine." he stated with a smile, although it sounded more like a question. "Don't let it happen again." I quipped. He smiled again and then a large pink woman hugged him voraciously.

Later I sat in the comfort of a fresh plane with most of the same passengers on our way again to South Bend. I now understood that today's planes are engineered to withstand a landing such as this. Hardly routine but hardly disasterous. The aircraft's structural frame, the skid plates on the wing bottoms, the laterally braced landing gear, the attendants discipline, the pilot's training, the emergency response readiness, and countless other unseen things, resulting from foresight and lessons learned, all work together to ensure safe travel. But still, recounting the earlier events I found it eerily disquieting to realize that amidst all the emergency vehicles at the ready for disaster, we waited 20 minutes on the runway in the cold night for the arrival of a vehicle suitable for the transport of 28 able bodied passengers.

And now as I watched the other passenger's heads bobbing above their seat backs I wondered what would become of us all as we diverge tonight back into our seperate lives. And as I walked off the plane I was pleased that this last flight had proven to be marvelously boring. Wheels up to touch down...fourteen minutes.