I have logged jillions of miles on airplanes in pursuit of entertaining the agricultural masses (I give humorous speeches for a living). I put myself in the care of those professionals in the cockpit. And to their credit, I have made an equal number of takeoffs and landings.

SPRINGTIME FLYING

I’ve had occasion to fly in lots of small planes. They don’t bother me. I always put my faith in the pilots and let ’em do their job.

However, over the years I’ve developed some caution when I fly over the western plains in springtime, especially if I’m under 35,000 feet. They have some monumental weather in that swath of country, from Amarillo north up through the Dakotas. Tornado season, ya know.

One bright spring morning several years ago, I boarded a little six-seater in Chadron, Nebraska, on a milk run headed for Denver. I was the only passenger and I took the backseat. On boarding, I noticed the pilots’ luggage in the compartment behind my seat. One bag was open. They set my hangin’ bag on the floor behind their stuff.

I strapped in, and took out a book. The pilots were young men. They gave me the brief safety instructions, and off we went, headed south.

As we leveled out, I could not help but notice the giant wall of black clouds to my right. They rose farther than I could point. The flight was bouncy. The copilot kept checking on me. Suddenly a vertical clearing of sunlight split the storm clouds. The plane banked into the clearing. They were going to try for the scheduled landing in Alliance.

From the cockpit dashboard, pencils and sunglasses flew my way. The pilots’ giant black book of maps of every airport in the world broke open and filled the air. Over my shoulder I could hear the bags bangin’ around. . . . T-shirts, Fruit of the Looms, and a Stephen King novel issued from the luggage compartment. A lone dirty sock snagged on the seat back in front of me.

The pilot made a left and we popped back out of the turbulence.

Once the plane was under control, the copilot leaned back and asked about my health. “We’re going to bypass Alliance,” he said, “and Sidney doesn’t look good either.” He was the color of Cream of Wheat.

I looked back to the east. I could see all the way to Philadelphia.

“North Platte’s right over there,” I said, pointing.

We landed in North Platte in 52 mph winds. That’s where I spent the night.

Jerry said one spring he caught a ride from Valentine, Nebraska, to Winner, South Dakota, with an Irish engineer named Joe. It was Joe’s airplane. The weather was springtime rough, and Joe’s plane didn’t give Jerry much confidence.

When he climbed in the four-seater, he noticed Joe was wearing a parachute. “You got another one?” Jerry asked.

Joe said, “Don’t worry, you prob’ly won’t need one.”