Free A Carlin Home Companion by Kelly Carlin Page B

camper van and toured the area. Mom made us stop at every antique store in search of turn-of-the-century medicine bottles, and Dad loved to stop at historical monuments. After a week or so, we ended up in Vershire, Vermont, to visit Uncle Pat and Aunt Marlene. They now lived and worked at a private school/summer camp that catered to rich kids who just wanted to “turn on, tune in, and drop out,” but whose parents wouldn’t let them. Everyone had long hair, wore tie-dyed shirts, and didn’t care for authority. This was a perfect place for my uncle and aunt, since they themselves had definitely turned on, tuned in, and dropped out, and never much cared for authority to begin with. Aunt Marlene ran the kitchen, and Uncle Pat provided “security.” The Derek and the Dominos’ song “Layla” reverberated throughout the main building. It must have been the only album that the campers had, because I don’t remember any other song playing that entire summer. My cousin Dennis and I roamed the forest, learned to play mumblety-peg from the older campers, and bought Mountain Dews and Oh Henry! candy bars at the gas station down the road—the only place to buy anything for miles and miles.
    My mom and dad headed out for more gigs, leaving me there for the rest of the summer. By the time they came back, I’d learned to ride a horse, play soccer, and helped write the end-of-summer play. But, my most vivid memory of that summer was seeing all the adults huddled around a little black-and-white TV eagerly watching a bunch of politicians yammer on and on about who-knows-what. Little did I know it was the Watergate hearings, and our parents’ dreams were coming true—President Nixon would soon be disgraced and forced out of the White House. The summer of 1973 was rather perfect for all of us.
    Another trip we made around that time was a bit less than perfect. Or maybe it was completely perfect. Dad had a bunch of dates in the lower Midwest, so we were flying from gig to gig in small single-engine planes. One day we were flying from Charleston, West Virginia, to somewhere in Pennsylvania. Mom sat in the copilot’s seat, as she always did, because she told the pilot that she’d had some flying experience (she loved talking to the pilots, and they always let her fly the plane). Forty-five minutes into the flight, the plane started to get thrown around like it was made of balsa wood. We were skirting the edge of a huge thunderstorm. The pilot was doing his best to get around it, but the storm was faster than we were. The plane pitched and rolled violently, and I clutched my dad. He held me tight.
    â€œWe’re okay,” my mom said as the pilot physically strained to keep the plane level. In a cheerful voice, Dad added, “It’s just like a roller coaster. Up. Down. Right. Left. It can be fun if you let it.” I was not sold. I began to cry.
    The pilot shouted, “Dammit, the radio’s gone out!” He turned to my mom. “Take the controls.” Mom grabbed onto the controls as they moved about as if they had a mind of their own. The pilot worked on the radio. Mom battled to keep the plane steady. I hid my head in my dad’s chest. I was sure we were going to die.
    As the ferocious storm tossed us about, Dad held me tightly. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to be perfectly fine,” he kept whispering in my ear. I think he was talking to himself as much as he was to me. After what felt like two and a half eternities, but was more like ten minutes, the pilot finally yelled, “Got it!” He’d fixed the radio. He grabbed his controls, and Mom and he flew through the rest of the storm. Finally a patch of blue sky emerged in the distance, and we flew toward it.
    For the next week my mom could barely move her arms. She’d pulled every muscle in her upper body keeping that plane aloft. She saved our lives that