Flying Carpet

Sunshine and sweet potato pie

I expected sunshine upon clearing the clouds at Paducah, Kentucky, and perhaps a golden brick runway. For although I'd never been here before, a special person from my youth had cast a spell on this Ohio River town that was just as vivid as any bright-hued fairy tale.

I was only 6 years old when Blanche came to Chicago from Paducah. For a decade she nurtured our frenetic family of four children and two working parents; with soft words and a chuckle she could calm any domestic storm. We kids cuddled on Blanche's lap to enjoy her beloved Lawrence Welk Show, and chimed in singing the TV program's popular theme, "Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar in the summertime...."

In her previous life, Blanche had served as pastry chef for Paducah's prestigious Irvin Cobb Hotel. It was her proudest achievement, and no one who tasted her cooking doubted it was true. Among countless mouth-watering specialties her crispy fried chicken was spectacular, and her sweet potato pie legendary.

Not even culinary pride could derail Blanche's sense of humor, however. One evening she introduced chess pie, a new-to-us Southern specialty. Despite our eager anticipation, furrowed brows followed everyone's first bite. Not knowing how the treat should taste, we suffered uneasy silence until a grin brightened my mother's face. "Was this made with the sour cream from the refrigerator door?" she asked. "It was all we had," replied Blanche. "I tried to get all those little green things out." They turned out to be chives. Other chefs might have cried over onions in their pie, but Blanche led us in tears of laughter.

As with any cherished family member, we never imagined that Blanche might one day leave. I was a teenager when her son Robert joined us one morning to harvest apples from our backyard trees. "You need to let Blanche retire one of these days, " he chided my mother. "She's well into her 70s."

"That can't be right," said my mom, startled. "When I hired Blanche she was 49. That makes her 59 now."

"She might have stretched the truth a bit," chuckled Robert. "After all I'm 52 myself." By then Blanche was woven inextricably into our family fiber. Her retirement to faraway Paducah cast a pall over our home, and a disappointing series of would-be replacements followed. One turned out to be a closet chain smoker in our non-tobacco household, and another absconded with my mother's jewelry. Each new difficulty deepened the void.

Years passed without us seeing Blanche, and when she couldn't make my wedding I grew increasingly eager for my wife to meet this special lady. Our first opportunity was a professional conference at Kentucky's Lake Barkley State Resort Park--we'd fly to the meeting from our northern Indiana home and land at Paducah on the way back.

But then I blundered. Casual comments to a coworker about the trip snaked their way to the company legal department.

"What if you run into an airliner?" said my boss, forbidding me to fly.

"What if I ram a bus with my car?" I blurted in angry response.

There was no point in arguing; piloting a personal airplane to this or any other meeting on behalf of this corporate employer meant that I would be fired.

Two years later, Jean and I were finally fulfilling our mission to the Bluegrass State. Renting a speedy Grumman Tiger, we stopped along the way to collect my sisters Leslie and Denise at Champaign, Illinois, where both were university students. It was a miserable flying day, but vanquishing clouds and rain just magnified the wonder of my first landing at Paducah. I recited Blanche's street address to the taxi driver by memory, having inscribed it so often on envelopes as a child.

Like a magical grandmother, our Kentucky belle waited beaming at her door. She was frailer than before, but she warmed our hearts with her undiminished smile. It was intriguing to visit Blanche in her own world, having known her only in ours. Although modest in size, her home was lovingly scoured clean and crowded with colorful mementoes. Our pulses jumped when we entered the kitchen, for among photos of her grandchildren on the fridge, were our own images and crayon drawings given to her as gifts during our long-ago childhood.

To honor the visit Blanche had prepared a sumptuous banquet incorporating every one of our individual favorite dishes--the centerpiece was chicken with giblet gravy, followed by apple and sweet potato pies to satisfy our various tastes. Love flavored every bite, and there were tears all around when it was time to leave.

When next our busy lives permitted a Paducah visit, only my sister Denise could join me. It was gray and blustery when I landed at Indianapolis Metropolitan Airport to pick her up, and as always there was a lesson: Don't simultaneously open both doors of a Cessna while the wind is blowing. After chasing charts across the ramp we took off for Kentucky, reveling en route at how flying had made our family whole again.

By this time Blanche had slowed considerably, and she was less gregarious than in the past. She still laughed with her old sparkle, however, and served up fresh apple pie. I'm just glad we didn't know that the tasty slice would be our last. Later we'd appreciate our good fortune in not waiting longer to reunite with her.

Driving to the airport that evening Denise and I sought out the Irvin Cobb Hotel, run down but soon to be refurbished into apartments. In seeing Blanche we'd rekindled the warm rays of our childhood. Now if only we could glimpse the glory days of this grand old hotel, when a proud young woman starred as chief pastry cook.

Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.