The night before our flight home to New York, I was feeling like a cat in a violin factory. When we touched ground in San Francisco back in June, I had made a mental note never to get on a plane again. The turbulence and tight quarters had left me rattled, and I resolved to spend three months figuring out some other way to get home, even if it meant hopping on board a freight train with a can of beans in a bandana suspended from a stick. Now here I was getting ready for a 6 o'clock in the morning flight with no small measure of trepidation.
Daddy was more than a little bit surprised when I revealed my misgivings to him [I had not let on before], but there was nothing he could do. Eight expensive, non-refundable tickets had been purchased, and nine Gunthers would be 30,000 feet in the air the next day. There was no way around it.
Last minute packing and tidying was keeping me busy during those final hours, and I walked around our beloved San Francisco House saying a silent goodbye to every crevice and corner, trying to memorize the feel of the fabric under my fingertips, the old-time smell of gasoline emanating from the furniture, and the glint of streetlights filtering through the lace paneled curtains. A last minute drawer inspection revealed a holy card of Our Lady of Loreto. I smiled to myself, glad we did not leave this image of Our Lady behind--she was beautifully depicted holding her infant Son before the house in Nazareth and bourne along by two angels. The vaguest of all recollections returned to me, and I remembered one of the children asking for the card at the Mission San Rafael months ago. I flipped the picture over and found a prayer which, under the circumstances, took my breath away. It was entitled, "Our Lady of Loreto, protect my flight":
Our Lady of Loreto,
benevolent patroness of aviators,
protect and guide me on my flight.
Look upon me with your gentleness, O Mary,
and upon all I travel with.
Shelter us from harm,
Blessed Mother,
and lead us safely
to our destiny.
Amen.
The Blessed Mother is not slow to let us know she is caring for us, sometimes even before we remember to ask for her help. I offered the prayer to her with all my heart and impulsively posted it to the Cottage of Loreto Novena group, knowing the good people there would not mind this unusual personal request.
Planning to leave the house by three in the morning, Daddy and I did not sleep at all that night, and before we knew it, we were waking the children--all groggy eyed and fully dressed--and loading them into the big white van for the last time. In keeping with our theme of "San Francisco Serendipity," there was a lunar eclipse that night. We watched the moon turn from gold to crimson, waxing low on the horizon like a dull setting sun.
By the time we returned the van to Hertz and made our way through some exceedingly tight security, we arrived at our plane with--I kid you not--four minutes to board. Although the airline had assured us of the high likelihood of sitting together when we purchased the block of eight tickets, all the assigned seats were individual. Even three year old Maureen was sitting on her own in a middle seat between two adults. Complicating the arrangement further, Eileen and I were bumped up to first class, leaving Daddy and the children to their own devices and dotted all around Coach.
Although this sounds like a recipe for disaster, the flight went remarkably well (for all of us). Gazing out the window at the vastness of our beautiful country, I was completely at peace, interested in everything and not the least bit on edge. My "fear of flying"--something that has caused me to avoid air travel for almost ten years--evaporated like morning dew, and I knew it was thanks to Our Lady of Loreto and the prayers of the Novena group. [So complete was my transformation that I was already thinking about taking the children to Ireland, something that never even occurred to me before.] In my mind's eye, I pictured angels, just like the ones in the holy card, ushering the plane to Kennedy Airport under the watchful eye of Our Lady and her Son.
Happily settled at home the next day, Daddy and I went out to dinner for the first time since leaving New York all those months before. We talked about so many things by the flickering candlelight that night, the vivid memories of San Francisco still more real to us than Long Island in some ways. From a speaker in the distance, Frank Sinatra was crooning "Luck be a Lady Tonight," barely audible over the din of patrons chattering at the bar. Our check paid and two side by side coffee cups almost empty, we were just about to leave, when Frank's voice mellowed into the familiar standard, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." We lingered at the table a moment, listening to lyrics we never truly understood before, but now could have written ourselves:
"I left my heart in San Francisco, high on a hill it calls to me
To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
The morning fog may chill the air, I don't care.
I left my heart in San Francisco . . . ."
With that, Daddy reached across the table and squeezed my hand, saying in his solid, earnest way, "I brought mine home with me."
That was almost a week ago now, but I don't think the smile has left my lips since.