My dad kept pictures like this all over the house, airplanes are kind of a *thing* on my paternal side. Grandpa was a WWII fighter pilot turned cargo (I believe) pilot. For the first half of my life, Dad worked for World Airways &Polar Air Cargo, where he’d come back with pictures from African Safaris, or stories about Siberia, or fresh fish from Anchorage, where he went seemingly most often. Now, he’s a domestic commercial captain. He tells me weird stories about passengers & emergency landings or whatever; he also had to fly a plane from SFO to OAK for some reason- he said air time was under 5 minutes. Coming from an aviation family has not been without its fair share of annoyances, but I’ve grown used to phone calls being answered with “Hey Lindz, I’m just about to push back out of the gate in Orlando, call you when I get to Chicago?”. Sometimes I check in, I ask “is your airline hiring?”, I might be inclined to a pseudo-nomadic lifestyle, just like everyone else bearing my surname.
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