montone 093I like to think of our first family flight as a flight to Tonga and New Zealand when the kids were one, three, and four (not that a 30 hour flight with three toddlers is necessarily a pleasant memory), but unfortunately our first flight was to Arkansas, to a hospital where my father was dying after being hit by a car. The only reason it is worth mentioning here, is I would never have overcome my fear of flying if it were not for my father’s accident.

He said to me three days before he died, “Julie, you are more likely to die crossing the street than you are flying in a plane.” We have been flying (and looking both ways) ever since.