Publisher’s Perspective: Fear and Fallingwater

I just returned from a week-long vacation; my first extended break in a year. It was a wonderful trip with just the right balance of activity and rest, family and friends, familiar and new. And in the process, I scratched a big item off my bucket list.

But I’m happiest about the way I got to and from my Central Ohio base of operations. I flew, and it was a big deal for me.

I’ve flown many times, to many places. But two years ago, on a packed night flight from Orlando to Boston, I suddenly became intensely aware that I was trapped between two large people in the middle seat. My heart raced involuntarily, my breathing became shallow and conscious, and I quickly developed a flop sweat.

It was a classic panic attack, and it lasted until we began our descent into Logan International. After this single episode, the association—airplane/panic—was so strong that the return flight was just as bad. I hadn’t flown since; not worth it. If you’ve ever had a full blown panic attack, you know what I’m talking about.

And I know many of you do. Flying is not what it used to be, when there was no stress-inducing security check and you could leisurely stroll onto a half-full plane and spread out across the row of seats for a nap. Most people I know suffer flying, often with meditation tapes or morning alcohol.

I discovered my magic formula for flying this trip: a little courage, an aisle seat in an exit row, a calm traveling companion, and Xanax—the perfect drug for air travel. I felt my heart quicken when the airplane doors slammed shut; I just didn’t care.

I stayed in Lancaster, a comfortable town south of Columbus where my mother grew up, and where I was born and my father is buried. There’s a park where children launch toy sailboats across a pond, and white-fenced fairgrounds so picturesque that they have been used in movies. When you climb to the top of Mt. Pleasant you see rows of old houses, church steeples, the courthouse square, and the Anchor Hocking glass plant and the rolling hills of southern Ohio in the distance.

The homes all have front porches, flower and vegetable gardens, and lawns so soft and green that they invite you to roll around in them. Deer peak out from surrounding woods. At night, fireflies punctuate the low landscape with dots of on-and-off light. And behind my grandmother’s house, the shallow creek is still filled with the tadpoles and shiny pebbles my siblings and I collected as children.

An hour north, my friend, Ed, and 2,500 more jock types were playing in the NAGAAA Gay World Series and partying in Columbus. I attended the festive opening ceremonies at a downtown park on the Scioto River, saw dozens of friends from Tampa Bay and Orlando, and made plans to join them later in the week.

The next day I drove an hour south to visit my Aunt Jody and Uncle Ward in Wellston, where for decades they owned and ran the only drugstore in town. Ward’s Drugstore had wood floors, high ceilings and lots of big glass jars, and always smelled of Old Spice. As kids we felt like royalty when told we could “pick out any toy you want,” oblivious that none cost more than 99 cents.

Aunt Jody broke her hip last year, and a brief rehabilitative stay in a nursing home has turned into a sad, extended one. At 89, and with Uncle Ward now frail and dependent on a walker, their options are limited and all unappealing. Offers of help are met with a stubborn, prideful resistance that is frustrating but also admirable.

Over chocolate pie at Lee & Helen’s Diner, Uncle Ward told me that many of the nursing home residents were once customers at his drug store. The toothless man sucking non-stop on a dish towel used to leave his beagle outside while he shopped. The elderly woman crying over her non-existent baby was a stylish English teacher who bought Arpege perfume. On the beautiful, winding driving back to Lancaster, I tried not to think about the cruelty vulnerability of old age.

The highlight of my vacation was a two-day road trip to western Pennsylvania, where I fulfilled a lifelong ambition and found Frank Lloyd Wright’s residential masterpiece, Fallingwater, nestled in the Allegheny Mountains. It is determinedly off-the-beaten-path, but when I pulled in the parking lot I recognized my people: pale, grey, sandaled and bespectacled—like an NPR pledge picnic.

I got there an hour before my scheduled tour began, and I couldn’t wait. I quickly followed the signs down a winding cobblestone path until I rounded a corner and there it was, possibly the most photographed home on the planet, almost breathing with dignity, beauty, and the light of genius. The late afternoon tour was sheer delight, and when it was over I found the famous viewing sight looking up at the waterfall over which the house is built. I stayed there, propped up against a tree, deeply moved, until darkness encroached.

From there I drove 90 minutes north for a first-ever exploration of bigger, bolder, better-than-expected Pittsburgh. And from there I returned to Columbus for the final days of softball.

It was a vacation filled with thought-provoking images and experiences, and I looked forward to pondering everything on the flight home. But I fell asleep.