The first time I met Norman at the Hospital for the Aged in a northwest suburb of Toronto, I had been delayed due to a wild thunderstorm. Looking out at the sky, Norman said matter of factly, “Ah yes. Electricity in its most salient form. There will be a lot of delays at the airport tonight.” I was to learn over the next few weeks that Norman had been an engineer and that he had enjoyed a lifelong fascination with all things aeronautical. On the wall of his room, adjacent to the west-facing window where he passed countless hours looking out at the horizon, hung an intricate map of the runways at Pearson International. He was quick to inform me that some nameless “authorities” thought he shouldn’t have the map, in this post 911 world, but the Fire Captain at the local station had seen it, and thought it was okay. Wheelchair bound and suffering from advanced heart disease, he entertained himself by paying meticulous attention to the schedule of the flights that landed on the one runway that he explained to me was the “farthest out” and an “engineering nightmare” due to its length. It was, at 9000 feet, the shortest of all the runways, and ended, in Norman’s opinion, perilously close to the Etobicoke creek. He was convinced that there would be a catastrophe there one day and although he didn’t want to bear witness to such a distressing event, he wanted to at least be able to offer an educated account if such a thing were to happen. “It’s just too damn short for the size of those jets they’re landing there.” he stated emphatically. “If something happens on that runway when I’m gone, you bet I’m going to try to help, if you know what I mean. Be an angel on the wing or something.” he added with a chuckle. He then informed me as he bent down to pat Ocea’s head, that the Lufthansa flight floating over the horizon at that moment, was arriving exactly 16 seconds later than scheduled. Norman loved to visit with Ocea because she relaxed him, he would tell me in a soft voice that matched well with his gentle eyes. We shared many happy moments together. Norman died two years after I met him. In the summer of 2005, Ocea was very ill and was no longer working as a Therapy Dog and I had moved from the suburbs to the Beaches neighborhood in Toronto. On a rainy August afternoon, my daughter and her friend came rushing through the front door, anxious to tell me that they had to drive out to the airport. There had been a crash and the friend’s mother who worked there, could not get her car out of the parking lot due to all of the media trucks that had arrived. I shivered at the thought of such a devastating tragedy and the ensuing loss of life, and turned on the news to see what had happened. It was an Air France jet that had crashed, on what I was soon to realize was 24L, “Norman’s” runway. Miraculously, not one person was killed. The plane had overshot the runway, and crashed into the creek where it burst into flames, and astonishingly, all passengers and crew were safely evacuated. That night I walked down to the lake and looked up at the sky. “You did it Norman.” I said. “You were an angel on the wing.” A flash of lightening came out of nowhere and lit up the sky. “Electricity, in its most salient form.”
