inion TheReview Wednesday, October 10,1990 — A15

I have to admit I regard flying as most fighter
pilots regarded the Second World War — just long
periods of boredom interspersed with moments of
sheer terror For escapism I’ve picked up the last
c@py of Famous Last Words at the airport

@} bookstore.

“Goodbye, everybody,” says my mother, seated
next to me, as the 767 pushes back from the ramp.
These were Hart Crane’s departing words, too, as
he leapt from the deck of a ship in midocean.

My mother toys with her lighter, anxious for the
No Smoking sign to be extinguished. But
when the captain interrupts the piped-in music, he
says this is a Non-Smoking Flight today. He

a apologizes for the delay but we will be able to
enjoy a smoke-free environment en route to
Toronto. My mother puts her lighter away and
Starts fuming.

“For God’s sake you have to die of something,”
she says, rummaging through her purse for a
ey Lifesaver. “Death would be comparatively pleas-

ant, aS opposed to some ordeals, I mean. Like
living. For five hours without a cigarette.

I'remind her that second-hand smoke is danger-
ous to people’s health, using Saki, the great short
story writer, as an example. “Put that bloody
cigarette out!”’ were Saki’s famous last words
moments before he was killed by a sniper’s bullet.

“This isn’t World War II,” my mother retali-
ates. “It’s supposed to be Hospitality Service.”

The bullying music grows louder as the plane
taxis into position for take-off. Then, “Ladies and

gentlemen, this is your captain again: With any
luck we should be in the air momentarily.” With
any luck? Momentarily? To someone who takes
words at face value, this sounds ominous.

We hurtle up the runway. “They’re playing
‘Nearer My God to Thee’,” says my mother. I
agree it’s a strange choice for take-off.

We're airbome. I have my first moment of sheer
terror when the wheels retract. Then boredom sets
in, and I return to my book. Rousseau’s dying
words, “I go to see the sun for the last time,”
appear in front of my eyes as the 767 breaks
through the clouds into the blue, unappealable
sky.

S I grit my teeth and relax as we climb to our
cruising altitude. My mother, in lieu of smoking,
has her hands clenched in prayer. I don’t pray
when I’m on the ground and refuse to alter my
standards simply because I’m in a life-threatening
situation. The idea that one should use God as a

We must be landing

form of oxygen mask or life-jacket, seems to me
hypocritical.

The captain, though he is expecting some
turbulence, suggests we sit back and enjoy the
view. Personally I don’t enjoy anything at 41,000
feet. “This is utter hell,” I say, as we bump
eastward over the mountains. I hate to think these
might be my last words.

“Amen,” says my mother. “I never worry about
anything when we're this high up, ” she adds,
inhaling another Lifesaver. “If something goes
wrong I figure there’s always time for the pilot to
fix it before we reach the ground.” She has put on
one of those masks people wear to keep the light
out. “Dad used to hold my hand whenever it got
rough.”

I take her hand. My father died four years ago.

“1 always feel closer to Dad when I’m up
here,” she says, quietly. Then, when the turbul-
ence is over, “I wonder what hell is really like,
anyway.”

The flight attendant moves through the cabin
distributing complimentary wine. My mother,
with her mask on, can’t decide between the red or
white. I ask what we are having.

“There’s a choice of chicken or pork,” the
flight attendant informs me. ““But you don’t get a
choice. It’s pork.”

Something in my look makes her hasten to
explain. “You see — in First Class they have a
choice. If there are any leftovers then we can offer
them to you in Hospitality.’”

“Leftovers!” I hear myself cry. My mother, who
has heard the same cry all her life, sighs with the
flight attendant. I raise my voice in protest.
“Leftovers!” I picture plates of little chicken
bones picked clean by First Class vultures.

“But the peasants — how do the peasants die!”
I cry, quoting the dying Tolstoy. It works. To
silence me they bring chicken.

Hours later it’s dark and a new moon is rising
over Lake Ontario. I read of the Chinese poet Li
Po who fell out of a boat and was drowned when
he tried to embrace the moon’s reflection. His last
words are untranslatable.

There comes a final moment of terror when I
hear the plane’s engine change pitch. When it’s
clear to me we're only going down, I reach to
embrace my mother.

“We must be landing,” I say, relieved.

“Famous last words,’”” says my mother.

* Paugquachin
band council
geis re-elected

All three members of the Pau-
%  quachin native band council were
retumed for a two-year term in
elections held on the reserve Oct.
1.

Edwin Mitchell was re-elected
as chief. Counselors Max Henry
and Curtis Henry were also re-
elected, band manager Lyle Henry
said.

@hree people ran for chief and

seven ran for band council.

». There was a 97 per cent voter
turn-out for the election.

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