Flying with Granddaddy.
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I spent last night flying above the tropical green canopy of a mountainous island bay with my Grandaddy in what I think was a WWII B-17 bomber. Grandaddy took great pleasure in featuring the various performance aspects the plane, such as stalling the engine and letting us slide into a slow albatross spiral. As we quietly plummeted towards the jungle below, he would hoot with glee and then throttle the props back to life, pulling us back into the blue, my panic turning to pure elation. I can feel the breeze coming through the cracked cockpit window, and the rumble of propellers through steel and aluminum. I can smell the oil and fuel. We don't talk much. There is no need. His smile says it all. It's been 15 years or so since I visited with Granddaddy in my mind's night, so the dream sticks with me as I pull through the cloud of morning sleep into the dark quiet of Wednesday morning. Good to see you old man. Glad to see your still flying. |