We caught an 8 a.m. flight out of John F. Kennedy Airport, which meant getting up at 5:30 a.m. - the hour that I usually engage my snooze alarm and get ready to get ready ... to begin the day. But, today we are flying to San Diego to see our grandchildren.

The world is dark, but there is a traffic jam on the Belt Parkway. Who are these people and what are they doing on the highway at this hour?

The plane takes off exactly on time! That, itself, is a minor miracle. We take off due south over the Atlantic Ocean and slowly veer west. The skyscrapers of Manhattan fade slowly out of the porthole window and the panorama of America begins.

At 31,000 feet above sea level, the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia are the first recognizable sight. They truly are blue and are a spine-like ridge extending hundreds of miles in a north-south direction. Awesome!

Soon after, we are over the plains and farms of middle America. Some farms are covered with winter snow and some have circles on them. I am curious about these circles on so many plots of land, but I am too embarrassed to ask the flight attendants who are now serving breakfast.

Meandering rivers and little clusters of towns represent the grace of the American prairie. I see a small town and I wonder what its name is? What state are we flying over? What would life be like living in that tiny rural town? Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn pop into my head. I don't think that I could be a farm boy, but when you daydream anything is possible.

The movie is playing, but I am reading a very interesting book, so decline the earphones. The book is Turbulent Souls by Stephen Dubner and I am captivated by its unusual premise and situation.

The land is rising as we approach the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The terrain is sparsely inhabited. I am bothered by the fact that it would be so easy for the pilot to call out the names of those little towns and rivers, but he does not. Once, on a flight to Europe, a television set traced our position and told the passengers where we were. It made time pass easier and we felt we were more involved in the total traveling process.

The Rocky Mountains next soar into view, snow-capped, powerful and craggy, they reach into the sky. We are at 30,000 feet, so they do not trouble the plane we are flying on.

Next come the fertile green valleys of California sandwiched between ridges again going north-south for hundreds of miles. The plane lands exactly on time in San Diego. Another miracle has befallen us.

My son-in-law is waiting and the trip is over.

We have lived the lyrics of God Bless America by Irving Berlin. They come slowly into my head - From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam - God Bless America, my home sweet home.