A Plane He Built

Having No Plan to Meet Jack

Roy and I were snuggled on a worn, red sofa, our feet propped on the coffee table. Embers crackled and popped in the fireplace. The fire smelled of apple-wood. The last bits of sunlight filtered through window, slanting across the dining table and yellow carpet. I held a book, and Roy, his computer. Outside, gold and red trees rustled on the roof. Images of our time spent hiking the trails of the Smokey Mountain National Park ran through my head, like water in the rivers we’d walked along.

The Petit Jean Fly-in was next on our agenda. That started Friday, and it was only Tuesday. We’d be checking out of the Buckhorn Inn the next morning, with no plan between now and then. I always like to have a plan. I like to know where we’re going, where we’ll find dinner and where we’ll sleep.

As much as it unnerves me not having a plan, I couldn’t work up to making one. I wanted to stay where we were, in our cozy cabin. But weather was moving in to Tennessee and if we didn’t make for Arkansas, we wouldn’t be able to attend the Fly-in.

Roy looked up from his computer. “Where should we go tomorrow?”

I shrugged. “Somewhere in West Tennessee,” I replied, “Or Arkansas.” I abdicated control with a sip of wine. Roy nudged my shoulder. “How about visiting the Jack Daniels Distillery?”

“That sounds great,” I said. I thought of looking for hotels and restaurants, but my book and glass of wine felt higher priority. It’ll be fine, I told myself. It’s okay to not have a plan, I reassured myself.

The next day we flew out of the Knoxville Downtown Airport into a cloud-streaked autumn sky. There was just enough sun to illuminate the brilliant forest beneath us. There wasn’t much time to admire; we’d be landing in Tullahoma in an hour, and we had no plan. I poked at Foreflight on the iPad to see what hotels there were, and find a place to have dinner.

 “Foreflight says there’s a courtesy car,” I said.  

Roy nodded. “I expect there is.”

“Can we use it to get to and from our hotel?” FBO’s aren’t always okay with keeping the car overnight.

“I was hoping we’d camp in the pilot lounge,” he said.

I squirmed. And if we can’t? I thought. FBO’s were less kind to traveling pilot’s these days because of security regulations, or to refrain from competing with local hotels, especially in tourist destinations. We’d met with such mixed results to our request to camp in the pilot lounges recently that I’d started to feel like a hobo when I’d asked. Or maybe it was my military up-bringing, that one should always be self-reliant and asking for things is weakness, kicking in. My mind pictured the two of us, tired after a full day of travel and tourist-ing, calling around trying to find a basic clean bed and shower, and me getting grumpy and wanting dinner, and, and… Don’t be such a control freak, I told myself. It’ll be fine.

“Camping is fine,” I said, “But would you ask this time?”

The folks at the Tullahoma airport FBO greeted Roy and me as if we were expected. Roy signed our N-number on the courtesy car form and asked about staying the night in the pilot lounge. The gal behind the desk said, “Sure. No problem.”

“What’s your favorite place to eat?” I asked her, my adventurous side kicking in.

“Route 59 BBQ” she replied. “I go there for lunch all the time.”

We stacked our gear in the pilot lounge, climbed in the old Ford Taurus that was the courtesy car, and drove out to Lynchburg, Tennessee. We paraded through the grounds with our tour group, snapped photos, sniffed vats of fermenting mash, listened to our guide share the history and unique process for making Tennessee Whiskey, sipped a sample flight, and exchanged some airplane fuel for a few bottles of Single Barrel Select.  

We drove back to Tullahoma in the fading sun and found Route 59 BBQ at the edge of town. Two young gals in a place the size of my grandma’s kitchen piled mouth-watering chicken and ribs, a healthy square of cornbread, and savory pinto beans on to Styrofoam plates. No room left in our bellies for Blackberry cobbler, the kind topped with a pastry crust, so we took that to go.

The FBO was quiet when we returned. All the lights were out and the doors locked. An access code let us in to the pilot lounge, kitchenette and restrooms. It was our own, private space. Roy turned the TV on to the last game of the World Series. We curled up in recliners, ate blackberry cobbler, and cheered the Astro’s to victory.

That night I lay snuggled in my sleeping bag on the nubby carpeted floor next to my snoring hubby. I listened to the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and watched the green and white flash of the airport beacon diffract across the window blinds. I smiled from deep inside. A perfect day, and a perfect evening, and not a single bit of it was planned. And it was fine.