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Vanadium

James Bates

    I always wanted to be an airline pilot. My dad was one. My grandfather, too. The fact that both were killed in airplane crashes did not deter my enthusiasm.
    “I don’t get it, Jerry,” my mom told me when I was ten years old and told her of my dream. “Why could you possibly want to risk your life and end up like your dad and grandpa.”
    It was a good question, and, frankly, at that young age, I didn’t have an answer.
    “I just like planes, I guess,” I told her.
    “Let’s buy you a model airplane.”
    “All right!” My mind was easily distracted. Plus, I didn’t want Mom to worry. Plus, I loved making model airplanes.
    Eight years later, we had what they call career day at our school. We signed up for a 45-minute presentation by various representatives of business in our community. The week before I had scanned the list and saw, much to my shock and amazement, a talk being given by an airline pilot. I signed right up.
    On the day of his talk, the classroom was packed. Who’d want to hear about the joys of selling insurance or the thrill of working in an office when you could learn about flying? I guess me and lots of other kids did.
    “Hi, my name is Gary Brookings,” he introduced himself. “I’m a pilot for Eastern Airlines.”
    He was a tall, handsome man in his forties. He wore his pilot’s uniform, a dark blue jacket and pants, shiny black shoes, and, best of all, a cool hat dark blue cap with a black brim. He exuded confidence and in a moment he had the crowd of restless seniors listening to every word he said.
    He told us about the difference between a pilot and co-pilot and an engineer. He told us that he was studying, as he put it, ‘all the time,’ learning about new procedures and new rules set out by the FAA, the Federal Aeronautics Association. It was fascinating.
    At the end, when he asked for questions, I asked, “What’s your favorite plane to fly?”
    He didn’t hesitate. “I love flying the Boeing 747,” he said.
    Someone else asked, “Why?”
    “It’s all computerized and it’s easy to fly. Which is really something,” he added, “because it’s the length of a football field.”
    Wow! I was impressed. “How fast does it go?” I raised my hand and asked.
    “She cruises at 550 miles per hour.” He smiled. “Its engine is huge and is made with an element called vanadium to increase its strength. They’ve been developing the 747 for over ten years. I love flying it.” He smiled again and looked around the room. “I’ve been flying for twenty-three years,” he added, “Just in case you were wondering.” Which, honestly, most of us were.
    I went home and told Mom about the presentation and Mr. Brookings. “It was pretty cool, Mom. He seemed like a nice guy.”
    “What about flying?” She asked. She was making spaghetti for dinner, a favorite of me and my younger brothers and sisters. “You still want to be a pilot?”
    I wasn’t an idiot. I knew if I pursued the career that had killed my dad and grandpa, Mom would let me, she just wouldn’t be happy and would probably worry the whole time any time I went up in the air. She had a point. Plus, I’d gotten sick once on the tilt-a-whirl at the state fair, so there was the possible issue of me not being physically able to handle being up in the air anyway.
    Besides, there was something else that caught my interest during Mr. Brookings’s talk. “Mom,” I told her, helping to set the table. “He told us about some metal compound that they used to make the plane’s engine strong. I think he called it vanadium or something.”
    Mom was straining the noodles. She stopped and looked at me. “So?”
    “It sounded interesting.”
    “Really.” She went back to the noodles.
    I came to the stove and stirred the sauce. “I was thinking I might look into going into chemistry. It sounds like it might be fun.”
    I could see Mom trying to hide her smile. I think relief is what I saw. “So no flying?” She asked.
    “No flying, Mom, just chemistry.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Me, too.”
    And that’s what I did. I went to school studied to be a chemist and began working for a company right here in our hometown. Oh, and the first time I had to fly to go to a meeting on the east coast, I got kind of sick. Motion sickness they called it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty.

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