Chapter 2 #2
I looked up, startled, and saw one of my part-time restoration specialists, Ellen, standing there. She had her arms full of schematics and a concerned expression. “You okay? You look a bit off.”
“Just a long morning.” I forced a smile. “What do you have there?”
She held out the papers, relief washing over her face as I returned to business. “I think I’ve figured out the fuel line issue on the Lockheed P-38. Just wanted to double-check the schematics before we make any changes. If you’ve got a minute...”
Ellen’s passion for the work matched my own.
She was one of the few people who understood how important it was to preserve every detail of these historic machines, treating each plane with the same care I did.
Her enthusiasm for solving problems made her my favorite person to collaborate with, and for a moment, I felt my mood lighten.
“Yeah, let’s take a look,” I said, standing up and following her toward the restoration bay.
The smell of oil and metal greeted me as soon as we stepped into the large, open workspace, a scent that usually comforted me.
Today, it helped anchor me, pulling me out of the storm cloud of frustration from the morning.
Together, Ellen and I pored over the plans, tracing the lines of the vintage aircraft with careful attention, making small adjustments as we went.
Her excitement was infectious, and soon, I found myself immersed in the work, the way I always did when it came to these planes.
“Okay,” I said after a long moment, “this should fix it. We’ll have to reroute the line here, but it’ll keep the original design intact.”
“Yes!” Ellen grinned, holding up her fist for me to bump. “I knew you’d see the solution.”
As we finished up, I glanced across the bay at the other plane that required attention.
Ellen was good at so much of her work. She was one of the few female aircraft mechanics I had the privilege of working with and was incredibly gifted, but her knowledge of aircraft mechanics only went so far back.
And the Tin Goose at the back of the restoration bay needed more than new fuel lines.
It had been acquired in an auction, and I wanted to restore it to its original splendor so we could add it to our History of Flight exhibit.
It needed a lot of attention, which was my main project.
“I should probably get to work on that,” I said, more to myself than Ellen, nodding toward the plane at the far end of the bay.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re excited to get your hands on it!” Her eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for the help with the P-38.”
She disappeared, and I took a slow walk across the workshop to the Ford Trimotor, often called the “Tin Goose” due to its corrugated metal exterior.
This was the oldest aircraft we had outside of bi-plane replicas.
And it was magnificent, its design speaking to a bygone era of aviation when flying was still an adventure.
My hands ached to begin the restoration.
But instead of feeling my usual excitement, I hesitated, staring up at the plane’s nose.
There was something weighing me down, something that had followed me even into this place that I thought was my sanctuary.
How could I focus on the past when the present kept slipping out of my control?
How long would I be sidelined in my own life?
I ran my hand over the rough, weathered surface of the aircraft.
The metal skin had seen better days, the corrugated material featuring dents and pockmarks.
Much of it would need to be replaced, but I took my time, tracing the rivets, trying to focus on the task ahead.
Restoration was an important job, something that required patience, something that, in a small way, mirrored how I was beginning to feel about my own life.
How many pieces of myself needed fixing, restoring to what they once were?
I shook off the thought, refusing to let my mind go down that path.
But as much as I wanted to dive into a project like this, to immerse myself in the world of planes and mechanics that always brought me clarity, the emails I still hadn’t opened were waiting.
The budget report, the exhibit scheduling, the next meeting with donors.
My real work, the one Patrick and the board saw as a “hobby,” tugged at me, and with a frustrated sigh, I returned to my desk, where my computer screen glowed with unanswered emails and pending tasks.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard without typing.
The frustration from the morning was still there, lingering, just beneath the surface.
I felt like I was losing pieces of myself, little by little, every time Alyssa took over something I’d poured my soul into, and every time Patrick dismissed my concerns.
It wasn’t just about the work. It was about being erased.
With a deep breath, I opened my inbox and began working, answering the mundane questions that now felt even more insignificant compared to the fire that had been lit inside me.
My fingers moved over the keys mechanically, but my mind kept drifting back to the Tin Goose and the work waiting for me.
One day, I promised myself, I wouldn’t just restore planes from the past. I’d take control of the narrative of my own future.
For now, I sat in silence, doing what I always did: working in the background, waiting for someone else to see what I had built.