Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [139]
Our next private plane looked like a crop duster. I am five feet two, and I could step directly from the tarmac into the plane, no stairs necessary, it was so low to the ground. Ryan, who had plane envy looking at every Gulfstream or Challenger at the private terminals we used, called it the “Belly Plane.” The food Kathleen had ordered for the eight of us—the only meal we would get between 7 A.M. and 10 P.M.—was delivered to a different plane, so we took off hungry. To make matters worse, the edges of Hurricane Ivan were causing terrific turbulence, and the little Belly Plane was getting tossed around. A Secret Service agent threw up—impossible to hide in a cabin about the size of a nine-person passenger van—and I, finding an old granola bar in the tiny galley, bit into it and broke a filling. Most of the disasters associated with the Belly Plane were not its fault, but Ryan vowed not to fly on it again.
Five days later we had the plane we would have for the rest of the campaign. The crew rotated every few days, but after the first few rotations, Brett Karpy, a blonde, outgoing thirty-something pilot, asked to stay on with us. It was Brett who made sure we had meatloaf for dinner, and Brett who handed out campaign buttons to the curious who approached the plane surrounded by Secret Service and police cars. We never got on or off the plane without a big smile and his shouted “Good Luck!” When we got on the plane for the last time, the trip from Des Moines to Boston, he had heard news of the good exit polling and had bought champagne. I wouldn’t miss sitting knee to knee with Hargrave for hours on end, with all of our belongings stuffed around us or on the floor behind our legs. Poor tall Karen and maybe poor Ryan, whose seat faced hers, certainly wouldn’t miss the cramped accommodations. I wouldn’t miss crawling over suitcases and briefcases and passing meals back and trash up on every leg. But I would miss Brett. We all would. On December 28, 2005, Brett Karpy died. He and another pilot were on their way to pick up another customer, to flash that great smile at them and make them comfortable, when their plane crashed in California and they were both killed instantly. He had just turned thirty-four.
There are people, like Brett, open and warm, whom I won’t ever forget. I won’t forget Brett, and I won’t forget Hope Walz. We had a house party in Mankato, Minnesota, at the Walz home. It was a bright house and someone had stenciled a saying on the wall: Fear less, hope more; whine less, breathe more; talk less, say more; hate less, love more; and all good things are yours. You could tell that was the way this family lived. Tim had been in the National Guard in a support role near Iraq, and Gwen was left home with a daughter too young to understand why he was gone or how long he was gone. So Gwen filled a candy bowl with jelly beans. Every day Hope could eat one, but only one, and when the bowl was empty, her father would be home. I guess I needed a kid fix, so when Hope took my hand to show me her precious bedroom, the house party was put on hold for a few minutes. We sat on her bed and talked; she asked if I would read her a book, and I did, then I wrote a note to her in it. You can tell a lot about people by watching the way they interact with their children. Hope’s warmth was a product of Gwen and Tim’s warmth. I would see them several more times during my campaigning. Gwen came to New Hampshire, bringing Hope’s hello and a bracelet for me. And I saw them all again at Minnesota State University, back in my hold room, where I greeted all my friends.
Not everything was rosy and perfect, including me. At the Walz house party, one of the mothers was trying to buy body armor for her son who was headed to Iraq. She was trying so to hold in her