Some friends came past the house yesterday, walking their dog, and we got in conversation. They had recently visited a small airfield that is home to a gliding club and that immediately set off a memory for me.
When I was about seventeen years old and heavily into building model planes, I saw an advert in the magazine I subscribed to. It was for gliding vacations at a flying club in Yorkshire. One week of lessons with accommodation and meals.
All my previous vacations had been family affairs by the seaside.
Off I set, by train, to Thirsk, and then by bus to the small village where the lovely old inn was situated, and where I’d be staying along with the others who’d booked up. The village was near the foot of a steep cliff, and the field that was home to the gliding club was on the top.
The way the days went were – after a large breakfast at the inn we got into an ancient land-rover and drove up the hairpin bends to the flying field (and sometimes I got to drive!). Then some theory lessons in the clubhouse, as delivered by the chief instructor, who was Polish and had flown Spitfires during WW2. He was a real character! Then a series of flights – each one starting by hooking the glider to a cable attached to a large winch, being hauled up to around 200 feet, releasing the cable, and then sailing over the cliff.
But then, wonder of wonders, it was like sitting in an armchair in the sky. No engine noise and no whirling propeller in front! Then the search was on for rising air, either a thermal of warm air or an updraft from the cliff face.
The gliders weren’t the sleek machines of today – this was the 1950s and the club had rather boxy Slingsby sailplanes with side by side seats – one for the pupil and one for the instructor. The factory where they were made was nearby, and one of our day trips was to see them being constructed.
The only scary moment I remember is when, as we were floating along at about a thousand feet, a twin jet RAF bomber screamed past us heading to a nearby base.
Wendy returns, as promised, to sharing details of her and Jack’s recent Alaskan cruise
We met Melissa in one of the Alaskan cruise ship’s eight or fifteen bars – I never did get an accurate count. The different locations had varying personalities: poolside cheery, upscale top deck, and the British-feel pub (Oak and something, they’re all named Oak and something) down in the bowels of level 4.
Since the ship requires you to buy a drinks package (unlimited drink, obscene amount of money), I had made it my aim to try two new-to-me cocktails every day. Research, you understand, because I am an academic.
Having been told to try a Boston Iced Tea Party at the Oak and something, I slipped onto the bar stool next to Jack, at the corner adjoining the short end of the bar. Hearing of my quest, Roy-the-bartender began to suggest cocktails I might want to write down and try later.
At the short edge of the bar, leaning casually against the wall, sat a pretty woman, dark-complected, a sturdy kind of plump, and with a light to her face that signaled she enjoyed life. When she heard what Roy was proposing—a particular kind of “dirty martini,” she suggested an Espresso Martini. “It’s the kind of drink you can only have before noon,” she said with a grin.
The bartender agreed and a minute later, I had one in front of me.
Holy cow – the buzz could have been triple sec, coffee beans, or turpentine. I don’t know. I don’t remember a lot about the drink.
Melissa, as her name turned out to be, was on holiday after switching jobs. She had been a manager for a busy Best Buy and decided life was not as she wished it. Having gotten her real estate license, she was exploring her interest in “people, houses, and money.”
Nobody’s fool, Melissa wanted to live a comfortable life, but she also wanted to do more than “sell people bigger appliances than they can afford, while deluding them it would make them happy.”
As we chatted, Melissa shot us a swift, assessing look, then said her wife was on the cruise with her. It was a five-year anniversary event, as well as a change of life celebration. “I’m from a very traditional Catholic Hispanic family. We grew up a block away from each other, and it was a significant difference. My family had money, and I was the youngest girl. She was the oldest child in her family that didn’t have money. We didn’t know each other until high school, when she suddenly invited me to a club meeting.”
“And that’s how you got together?”
Melissa tossed the next line off casually. “No, we weren’t allowed to be gay in high school. It was after, when I was in college and she was working that we went to the same party and she said, ‘I remember you.’”
“She’d had a secret crush?” My romantic husband’s eyes lit up.
With a shrug, Melissa said, “I didn’t remember her. And she said that wasn’t unusual because all the people on my street were snobs. Which made me mad, and we didn’t speak the rest of the party. But I saw her a few days later in the store and told her off. And then I asked her out. Then we were together until it was legal to get married. That gave my parents time to get used to the idea. My dad walked me down the aisle. Her dad wouldn’t attend.”
Melissa paused, took a sip of her whiskey and soda, and said, “Actually, I think he was pissed his oldest girl was marrying a snob from across the tracks more than anything.”
We gave polite chuckles. I ventured a question: “So your family was accepting from the beginning?”
Melissa laughed. “No. My grandma said I would burn in hell, and she didn’t want that for me. You don’t know guilt until you’ve met an abuela. My dad went with the ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy, and my mom acted like I had a life partner I loved. She took it in stride. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend, do they respect you and will you get bored of each other?’”
I smiled back. “Moms tend to get it right first.”
“They do,” said Melissa. “They really do. When I told her I wanted to get married, to a girl, she told me, ‘The greatest happiness a child should be able to give their mother is to watch them be happy in life.’”
Talk flowed to our plans for docking in Skagway the next day—Melissa knew someone in town who was picking them up for a meal. Jack and I were casually meandering the tourist trap stores and then walking up to a waterfall. We parted with handshakes. I never saw Melissa again.
What fascinating, lovely stories people hold inside them.
