The last week in June of 1977 was a special week for me. It marked the fifth anniversary of the devastating flood that hit the town of Athens, Pa., where I lived at the time with our family and friends.
For me, it was also a time filled with nostalgia, as it was the week I waved goodbye to my oldest son. At 17 and accompanied by my mother, he boarded a plane and flew to Denmark where he was to spend the summer, getting to know my native country, a country I had left at that very same age to come to this country to settle down with my parents.
It was a week of thinking back many years to the day when I boarded a plane in Copenhagen, having just completed my first year of junior college. My parents had immigrated to the states a few months earlier in order to establish our home and for my father to start his new job in New York City.
That week had been filled with tears because I had to leave my old friends. It was also full of apprehension because I had to travel to another country, of which I had heard only that the main diet among the natives consisted of Coca-Cola, popcorn, and hamburgers, all of which I disliked at the time.
It was also a week to remember the endless plane ride (pre-jet 1958) seated next to a Catholic priest, the first one I had ever met as Denmark at the time was primarily a Lutheran country. The priest, who it turned out was afraid of flying, dampened his fear with an ample supply of liquid refreshments offered by the crew, but managed nonetheless to still my fears and give me some hope for a good life in the strange country towards which I was headed.
The arrival at Kennedy Airport, then known as Idlewild, was not pleasant. It was highlighted by a vaccination, given to me at the airport’s first aid station by a nurse who produced a needle that looked like a small spear to me. It appeared that I had managed to leave Denmark without the necessary certificate proving that I already had received my immunization shots. I was afraid of needles, and all I wanted was to see my parents as soon as possible.
Once united with my parents, the trip from the airport was filled with better impressions, the most vivid of which was the sight of the many car lots all over the city. Never in my life had I seen so many cars in one place. Denmark was, and to some degree still is, a country where people travel by train, bus and bicycles and cars were a distinct luxury.
We arrived at my parents’ home on Long Island around 11 in the morning and I was soon served lunch, although expecting dinner. Having just arrived, I was, of course, still on European time, six hours ahead, but enjoyed the meal with my parents and some of their friends who had turned out to welcome me.
Eventually the day came to an end, marking the end of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another.
And so that week in June when I saw my first-born off, I looked at the plane as it headed east toward Europe and with love and hopes wished that he would enjoy his stay in my native country just as much as I loved living in his.
Heidi Thurston lives in Kannapolis.