HIGH FIGHTOne of the briefest and most amusing family fights I have ever listened in on occurred in an airplane. I was flying its owner and his wife to the coast.We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the mountains at the desert’s western edge, and started out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles lay thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and the ocean beyond were covered with fog, and I could see nothing but the white, billowed stretch of it and the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us.I spiraled down and went through a hole in the fog near the foot of the mountains. It was lower and thicker underneath than I had hoped. I picked up a railroad and started weaving my way along it into the airport.The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low mists.Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Aren’t we flying awfully low?”I half turned my head and shouted, “Yes, the ceiling is awfully low.” I wanted to add, “You fool,” but didn’t dare.“Isn’t it dangerous?” she whined.“We’re all right,” I shouted. “I’ve flown stuff like this before. I can handle it.”Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. “Where are we?” she inquired.“I can’t tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, “but we are still on the right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes.”We passed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again.“Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” she whimpered.I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn’t want to miss it.I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication and command I have ever heard.“Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. “You keep your damn mouth shut, sweetheart.”
HIGH FIGHTOne of the briefest and most amusing family fights I have ever listened in on occurred in an airplane. I was flying its owner and his wife to the coast.We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the mountains at the desert’s western edge, and started out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles lay thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and the ocean beyond were covered with fog, and I could see nothing but the white, billowed stretch of it and the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us.I spiraled down and went through a hole in the fog near the foot of the mountains. It was lower and thicker underneath than I had hoped. I picked up a railroad and started weaving my way along it into the airport.The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low mists.Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Aren’t we flying awfully low?”I half turned my head and shouted, “Yes, the ceiling is awfully low.” I wanted to add, “You fool,” but didn’t dare.“Isn’t it dangerous?” she whined.“We’re all right,” I shouted. “I’ve flown stuff like this before. I can handle it.”Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. “Where are we?” she inquired.“I can’t tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, “but we are still on the right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes.”We passed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again.“Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” she whimpered.I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn’t want to miss it.I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication and command I have ever heard.“Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. “You keep your damn mouth shut, sweetheart.”
One of the briefest and most amusing family fights I have ever listened in on occurred in an airplane. I was flying its owner and his wife to the coast.
We came in over the Mohave Desert, crossed the mountains at the desert’s western edge, and started out over the valley, where I knew Los Angeles lay thirteen thousand feet beneath us. The valley and the ocean beyond were covered with fog, and I could see nothing but the white, billowed stretch of it and the tawny mountains rising out of it behind us.
I spiraled down and went through a hole in the fog near the foot of the mountains. It was lower and thicker underneath than I had hoped. I picked up a railroad and started weaving my way along it into the airport.
The owner of the ship, sitting on my right, was helping me with my map, holding it for me. His wife, sitting behind me, was squirming anxiously in her seat and peering tensely out of the windows through the low mists.
Soon she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Aren’t we flying awfully low?”
I half turned my head and shouted, “Yes, the ceiling is awfully low.” I wanted to add, “You fool,” but didn’t dare.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” she whined.
“We’re all right,” I shouted. “I’ve flown stuff like this before. I can handle it.”
Pretty soon she tapped me on the shoulder again. “Where are we?” she inquired.
“I can’t tell you the exact spot,” I shouted, “but we are still on the right railroad and will be coming into the airport in a few minutes.”
We passed over a town section just then, and the railroad branched three ways under us. I made a quick jump at my map to check which of the three I should follow. The wife saw me jump and must have seen that I looked worried. She tapped me on the shoulder again.
“Oh, are you sure we are going the right way?” she whimpered.
I started to turn around to explain to her what I was doing and why, realized my flying required all my attention right then, cast an appealing glance at her husband, clamped my jaws tight, and started studying landmarks. We were in close to the airport, and I didn’t want to miss it.
I heard the husband shout one of the funniest mixtures of supplication and command I have ever heard.
“Now listen, honey,” he shouted at her. “You keep your damn mouth shut, sweetheart.”