The Corn Singer

In the morning, I was strapping on a harness in the backseat of a tiny, four-seater, along with General Frasier Scott and his aide-de-camp, Major Downing.

Terrified to have my feet off the earth for the first time in my life, I did my best to conceal my panic. What plan did the Great Spirit have for me this far from home, and why must it involve being up in the sky?

The little plane was constructed of khaki-covered canvas

stretched over a light metal frame. I felt even more anxious when I noticed several rips in the canvas under one of the wings.

My mind—overcome with fear—raced back to my healing place, where the shady creek banks had offered me escape several times before. I tried to focus on the sparkling water, and the sunlight winking through the cottonwoods, and imagined the sweet scent of honeysuckle.
Suddenly, reality jerked me back to full consciousness when I saw a boyish-pilot circling the plane to perform a pre-flight inspection. His youthful appearance and oversized flight suit suggested a lack of experience.

General Scott followed close behind him. I watched as the general cringed as he pointed out nicks and stress cracks in the wooden propeller, and I could read his lips when Scott pointed to fabric showing through the tread on worn tires. The young pilot’s only response was a silent shrug as he raised his arms to his sides, elbows down, palms up.

Strapped in place, I watched the pilot bow his head, cross himself, and glance at the dog eared flight manual resting in his lap. With uncertain fingers, the young pilot began flipping switches. The compact engine sputtered to life, while a flight line worker with a single stripe dragged wooden chocks from under the wheels and then gave a running shove to the tail as we started to rumble down the grassy rain-soaked runway.

The light craft’s single engine strained as the inexperienced pilot dealt with unexpected headwinds. From my seat, I watched the side of General Scott’s face for signs of concern.

Several days of steady rain had turned the earth spongy once we’d passed the end of the compacted grass strip. Mud and grass splattered our windshield from the outside, and condensation clouded the view from the inside. The little plane began to wobble in the deep mire. General Scott’s cheeks were rigid, and his lips were drawn back tight against his teeth.

By the time the wheels sucked out of the mud, we were at least a hundred yards past the end of the runway. The little plane groaned as it strained to ascend. I glanced over the pilot’s shoulder and saw a red light pulsating on the altimeter gauge. It suddenly struck me that we were not gaining altitude fast enough to clear a forest of sycamores that was rushing toward our cockpit.

When General Scott crossed both forearms in front of his face, I braced myself against the back of the pilot’s seat. Images of Mother arranging flowers, Father re-stringing my bow, Aunt Pauline’s classroom, Paula serving pine nuts on the porch, Sheila handing me her gold nugget, and cloud pictures at the creek banks came to life in my mind.

Just as Ash and Coach Kaminski flashed through my mind, I felt a sudden jolt. My eyes were sealed from fear. I was sure we had struck a tree. The jolt turned out to be the force of the pilot slamming back the control stick.

Seconds later, I heard the young pilot muttering under his breath; but soon, the muttering turned into a screaming prayer: “God help us! Come on, baby! Come-onnn, baby! Get up there!”

The nose of the little plane lurched up at a forty-five-degree angle, slamming me back against the headrest. The canvas sides heaved in and out like a bellows, and the flimsy little plane shook like a wet dog.