He has been teaching people

Not at all. He had been teaching people to do this for years, and he liked students like Claudie, the ones who were eager to learn something new. She might cost Andy Sanders some real money before long;  she loved the Seneca, and had expressed a desire to have one just like it, only new. That would run somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars. Although not exactly spoiled, Claudie Sanders had undeniably expensible taste which, lucky man, Andy seemed to have no trouble satisfying.
Chuck also like days like this: unlimited visibility, no wind, perfect teaching contidions. Nevertheless, the Seneca rocked slightly as she overcorrected.

"you´re losing your happy thoughts. Don´t do that. Come to one-twenty. Let´s go out Route 119. And drop on down to nine hundred."
She did, the Seneca´s trim one more perfect. Chuck relaxed. They passed above Jim Rennie´s Used Cars, and then the town was behind them. There were fields on either side of 119, and trees burning with color. The Seneca´s cruciform shadow fled up the blacktop, one dark wing briefly brushing over an ant-man with a pack on his back. The ant-man looked up and waved. Chuck waved back, although he knew the guy couln´t see him.
"Beutiful goddam day!" Claudie exclaimed. Chuck laughed.
Their lives had another forty seconds to run.

Hwo you looking for 

 What was his name 

you can prob´ly find him 

 at the fooball game 

 it´s a small town 

 you know what I mean 

 It´s small town, son 

and we all support the team 

The airplane and the woodchuck

From two thousand feet, where Claudette Sanders was taking a flying lesson, the town of Chester´s Mill gleamed in the morning light like something fresly made and just set down. Cars trundled along Main Street, flashing up winks of sun. The steeple of the Congo Church looked sharp enough to pierce the unblemished sky. The sun raced along the surface of Presitle Stream as the Seneca V overflew it, both plane and water cutting the town on the same diagonal course.
"Chuck, I think I see two boys beside the Peace Bridge! Fishing!" Her very delight made her laugh. The flying lessons were courtesy of her husband, who was the town´s First Selectman. Although of the opinion that if God had wanted man to fly, He would´ve given him wings, Andy was an extremely coaxable man, and eventualy Claudette had gotten her way. She´d enjoyed the experience from the first. But this wasn´t mere enjoyment;  it was exhilaration. Today was the first time she had really understood what made flying great. What made it cool. Chuck Thompson, her intructor, touched the control joke gently, then pointed at the instrument panel. "I´m sure, " he said, "but let´s keep the shiny side up, Claudie, okay?"
"sorry, Sorry".

Imagine that little girl, hardly more than a baby. She fell from a carriage almost ninety years ago, struck her head on a stone, and forgot everything. Nor just her name; everything! And then one day she recalled just enough to pick up a pencil and make that first hesitant mark across the white. A horizon-line, sure. But also a slot for blackness to pour through.

Still, imagine that small hand lifting the pencil . . . hesitaring  . . . and  then marking the white. Imagine the courage of that first effort to re-establish the world by picturing it. It will aways love that little girl, in spite of all she has cost me. I must. I have no choice. 
Pictures are magic, as you know.    

Related articles

• Doing Drugstore: Jordana Eyeliner in 28 White
• Carmindy's Guide to Getting Eyeliner Right, Every Time
• Post a Thanks a Day: Dear pencil
• Beauty Mark It Results: Eyeliner

Start with a blank surface. It doens´t have to be paper or canvas, but I feel it should be white. We call it white because we need a word, but its true name is nothing. Black is the absence of light but white is the absence of memory, the color of can´t remember.

How to we remember to remember? That´s a question I´ve asked myself since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. 
Or  so I´ve  come to believe.