It was June of 1968, and I was fleeing for my
life, carrying my two-month-old, baby daughter. My brother had managed to scrape
together enough money for a first class ticket on an airplane traveling from
Atlanta to Detroit. My first marriage had become too dangerous, and as I flew
home to be with my family, I felt very agitated. Anything, God, I silently
prayed. Anything to break the monotony of my own tortured thoughts.
At that moment, my baby bobbed over toward a smoker, a bit of drool dripping
from her chin. As she studied him with wide-eyed wonder, she let out an enormous
belch, right in his face! It was all I could do to keep from laughing! The man
gave a disgusted grunt, and stepping over us, he retreated down the isle into
the back of the plane. I never saw him again.
Behind me, across the isle, I heard someone laughing. Turning to look at him, I
saw a man with a beet red face, nearly helpless with amusement. Our eyes locked,
and we both cracked up.
"Out of the mouths of babes!" Said my conspirator, with a wicked twinkle in his
eye. We laughed for some time, and then we began to visit. He was heading home
to visit his parents in Detroit, Michigan. My daughter and I were also on our
way home to stay with my parents, who lived just southwest of Detroit.
"What a beautiful child," he said, gazing at my little girl, with her soft dark
curls and her big brown eyes. I agreed. Something about this man was vaguely
familiar, but I just couldn’t place him. We talked. He was warm, kind, and
funny. I was pensive from time to time, but it was a relief to have a kindred
soul to distract me from my troubles.
I introduced myself, and he told me that his friends called him "Chuck." As we
were visiting, I just could not get out of my mind, that I knew this man from
somewhere. I certainly knew no one who traveled first class, and it would have
been unlikely that we had ever met. He was traveling from Los Angeles. I was
traveling from the south, and we had no similar points of reference, except
Atlanta.
His voice was mesmerizing. It was so familiar. Strong and evenly tempered. Where
had I heard that voice? All of a sudden, I knew him! I was sitting across from a
very famous man. Charlton Heston! I couldn’t believe it, and we were talking
like we were old friends! Should I tell him that I recognized him? What could I
say?! "I just loved you in The Ten Commandments?!" How stupid would that sound?
Tell him that he was the famous Charlton Heston? I don’t think so. I was pretty
certain that he knew exactly who he was. I didn’t think that he needed me to
inform him. And breaking into his privacy, to ask for an autograph, was simply
not going to happen. So, I never said a word.
He was charming and kind. He held my little girl, and he played the typical baby
games, speaking to her in a warm and coaxing way. She crowed in his face and
giggled. I don’t remember what we talked about. Ordinary things. We visited for
three and a half hours. I didn’t tell him that I was fleeing for my life, and he
never told me that he was a famous movie star.
All too soon our trip was over. The plane landed and we both got our carry-ons.
Mine was a diaper bag. His was something more Samsonite. He gathered his things,
and I picked up my infant daughter. He left the plane to be greeted by the press
and cameras. I left to obscurity. We both hugged our families, and my last sight
of him was to see him smile and nod his head at me, as he began to answer
questions from someone holding a microphone. I smiled back, and we parted
forever.
I didn’t watch the news. I didn’t see the interview. I don’t know the rest of
his story. I did tell my parents, who doubted that the man was famous. After
all, on the plane we were simply two travelers, passing time. Somehow, this
event was a pivotal point in my life. I had respected the privacy of a famous
man, simply because I could. After eleven months of married hell, he had made me
feel, well, normal.
Now, that he has passed-on, I remember a man who gave me my first glimpse into a
normal life, one where humor and kindness saved the day. Mr. Heston could have
been aloof and superior, but somehow I don’t think that was a part of his
character. Often in the tumultuous days of my bitter divorce, I would think of
that very famous man, who touched my life with so much grace.
Now, nearly forty years later, it occurs to me, how blessed I am, that I did not
invade the privacy of that famous man. He gave me a precious memory, and, by the
way, he did give me his autograph. He wrote his autograph upon my life!
Jaye Lewis jayelewis@comcast.net
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