The sun always shines at 35,000 feet

What follows is one of my favorite columns I wrote at the Mighty Mezz:

The sun always shines at 35,000 feet. That's something I used to say to my passengers, back when I drove a bus for Regional Transit Service.
I’d pull into my space behind Midtown Plaza in downtown Rochester, the snow would be coming down in sheets, and people would be holding onto their hats as the wind ricocheted off the buildings. You couldn’t even see the top of the Xerox Tower, as it was socked in by fog. Invariably, some wise-acre would comment on the weather, as my riders trudged off for another day of work in the city.
So I’d turn around and say “Well, you know, the sun always shines at 35,000 feet.” I haven’t flown a lot, not enough to be labeled a jet-setter. But I have flown some, enough for it to make an indelible impression.
My first flight was back in 1956 when I was all of 12. I had saved up my allowance, enough to go up for 15 minutes in a new Piper Tri-Pacer at a small grass-strip airport near where we lived.
It doesn’t really count — we never exceeded 1,200 feet — not enough to escape Flatland. But it’s something I’ll never forget. After taking off, our pilot let me take over the controls, which I happily did with blunderbuss enthusiasm and blind naiveté.
I circled our house in the South Jersey suburbs, and then waggled the wings in case anybody below was watching. I then flew the plane back to the airport, and descended to 100 feet, after which the pilot landed the plane.
But I never joined the Civil Air Patrol as I’d hoped, and I did not get my pilot’s license. In fact, I never did any flying again until my parents and my wife’s parents moved to Florida.
Since then I’ve flown enough to say, “Let’s put the hammer down,” as the pilot steers the airliner onto the runway. And up on the flight deck the boys comply, ramming the throttles full ahead, and we start accelerating faster and harder than any car.
After a long rollout that takes what seems an eternity, the nose comes up, wings take hold, and the big stainless steel cigar gently sags into the air.
Climb-out is always abrupt and steep, but if we used the north-south runway at Rochester International, soon we’d level off some, although still climbing, over the Thruway, and the tracks of the old Erie Railroad branch to Avon.
Hemlock, Honeoye and Canadice lakes would heave into view on our left, and as we climbed some more we’d slice into the overcast that always seems to cover our area. Finally, after climbing through the soup for a while, we’d break out on top at maybe 10,000 feet and the sun would be shining. Eventually we’d attain cruising altitude where all you’d see was the fluffy white blanket below, with our shadow racing across it surrounded by a circular rainbow.
What I’m describing here is the hop, skip and jump USAir takes to fly to Pittsburgh, where we’d catch another plane to Fort Lauderdale or Orlando, depending on who we were visiting.
One time we flew to Los Angeles, though, a long and arduous flight, most of which was in darkness. Occasionally we could see small towns on the ground far below, marked by the faint glow of street lights.
But when we jumped the San Gabriels and curved into the bowl that was the L.A. basin, the ground was covered with lights as far as the eye could see. At first it seemed surreal, and passengers dashed across the aisle to get a better view. But if you focused on detail you could see orange sodium-vapor lights illuminating parking lots, white hot halogen lights over baseball diamonds, and street lights and bobbing headlights lighting the boulevards below.
A few days later we took off in the afternoon, and as we climbed out and headed inland, I couldn’t help notice the shortage of greenery. L.A. was all strip-malls, tract houses with swimming pools, and stucco cliff-side dwellings ready to tumble into a ravine at the slightest hint of a mudslide. Open parkland was hard to find.
Then the plane jumped the San Bernardino mountains, and the ground below became the Mojave Desert; sand and Joshua trees. Later, as we headed farther east across the Great American Desert, even the Joshua trees disappeared, and the sand turned barren and red as the sun went down.
One time we flew to Denver, and as we descended over Kansas on approach to Stapleton, I couldn’t help noticing most of the prairie had been carved into giant circles by irrigation derricks. Later, on the ground, I discovered the derricks were powered by oily old car engines, preferably V8s, which connected to pumps and the huge tractor wheels that slowly walked the rig around its pivot.
But the most significant aspect about flying is how it lifts you up out of Flatland, making all that’s happening below seem insignificant and petty. Flatland is reduced to an artificial patchwork created by farmers and civil engineers. The only other signs of civilization are the highways and railroad tracks that stitch the land.
Humans aren’t visible at all, and if you’re lucky you might be able to make out that gleaming 18-wheeler hurtling down the interstate. It’s hard to take seriously the wars and other human endeavors that take place down there.
So please excuse me if I pause to reflect while shoveling my drive way or mowing my lawn. I’ve been in the sky, and it affects my earthly pursuits. My home is barely visible from 35,000 feet.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well). (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)
• This column was published December 20, 1995, shortly after my stroke. There was no charge.