MOON OVER MY HAMMIE

It always starts out the same – the feeling of dread that I am going to be getting on a plane and may not come back.

I used to love to fly, but September 11th changed all that. Now I wear a crucifix around my neck and say ten Hail Mary’s before I board. It has to be ten, I don’t know why. I also have a mantra during takeoff, asking the Lord to “..please wrap your loving arms around this plane and keep us safe.”

It’s not the threat of a terrorist attack that gives me pause. But that fateful day reminds us that we are not immortal, that we can perish at anytime.

I sit and look around at my fellow passengers, wondering who would be the hero in a crisis, who has children and who is sitting in the emergency exit seats.

My anxiety is heightened if the weather conditions are not perfect. Snowy or rainy takeoffs are nerve racking, wondering if we will take off or land without falling into the water or landing on a house. I’ve started googling questions like “…are safe landings due to the expertise of the pilot, possibilities of wind shears, and what to do in a downward spiral….”

I realize all these thoughts are negative. I try to work myself up in the other direction – the fact that I am able to take these trips at all, I have a book signing for this silly little book I’ve created, my loved ones are waiting for me to land, that there are pilots like Captain Sully out there and that if my number is up, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.

I am in Florida visiting my sister and attending a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Lakeland. My ten year old nephew (who is the same age of my two oldest grands) is excited saying to anyone who will listen that “Aunt Eileen the writer is here to visit, and I’m going to make Mom buy 10 copies of the books!” I hugged him and told him he could have his for free.

It’s nice to see my sister, who has raised a nice family down here in Orange juice country. I have an photograph tucked in a corner of an old desk, of her and our youngest sister. They are standing outside besides a big oak tree, hugging each other while bundled up in snow suits, their faces red from the cold. They are about 5 and 8 years old. She looks the same, tanned from the weather here, but basically the same. Its how I will always think of her in my mind, I suppose, and it still surprises me to remember she has a 23 year old son and a beautiful 16 year old daughter.

Catching up over dinner, we all laughed and talked about our families, Bingo Mary and our Dad, and how we were looking forward to seeing our Mommy (that’s what we still call her.) We were all such little hams back then, wanting the spotlight on each of us – not at all like the confident and self-assured children we have all raised.


Mother’s Day will be different this year – I’ll be on a plane coming home and will be met by my two youngest sons for dinner. I’m sure there will be phone messages left from the others. I take solace in that fact that I will make it home to see them all again. But the Hail Mary’s will begin again, just in case.