Deke’s Note: 394,000+ hits, this first day of the year 2020. Wow. When I was a child, I thought cars would fly when 1970 arrived. In fact, perhaps I could as well!
As an eight-year-old, I put my theory to its ultimate test. Shuffling my sandal-clad heels upon the curb of my sidewalk, closing my eyes and willing it so, I channeled Lost In Space, Star Trek and The Twilight Zone. I dreamed of self-flight.
Dad was taking flying lessons from a crusty old crop duster pilot, and like my only idol I yearned to sprout wings and soar into that sunny Arizona winter-blue cape. A breeze playfully noogied my inch-deep crew cut as my upturned face savored the sunshiny heaven. We had migrated west just two years earlier; no way would I have stood on a sidewalk the first day of January wearing shorts and tank top in northern Illinois.
Gathering myself, I wondered if I should flap my arms for added lift once airborne. Imagining what that spot of Tempe sidewalk would look like from 25, 50, 100, 1000 feet, I braced for liftoff. Willing every millimeter of my physical and spiritual being to take the form of our feathered fellow beings, I invited the wind to lift my mortal gravitational bondage.
Eyes closed, mouth upturned at its right corner (my still-trademarked smirk), I took that magical leap. And landed in the street.
So much for youthful dreams. It was there I grasped the meaning of gravity, and except for about 200 hours of flight time with Dad in a tail-dragger Cessna, I’ve been grounded ever since.
Happy New 20s, my friend. May we all learn to soar above the trials we’ll face during this new decade.
As an eight-year-old, I put my theory to its ultimate test. Shuffling my sandal-clad heels upon the curb of my sidewalk, closing my eyes and willing it so, I channeled Lost In Space, Star Trek and The Twilight Zone. I dreamed of self-flight.
Dad was taking flying lessons from a crusty old crop duster pilot, and like my only idol I yearned to sprout wings and soar into that sunny Arizona winter-blue cape. A breeze playfully noogied my inch-deep crew cut as my upturned face savored the sunshiny heaven. We had migrated west just two years earlier; no way would I have stood on a sidewalk the first day of January wearing shorts and tank top in northern Illinois.
Gathering myself, I wondered if I should flap my arms for added lift once airborne. Imagining what that spot of Tempe sidewalk would look like from 25, 50, 100, 1000 feet, I braced for liftoff. Willing every millimeter of my physical and spiritual being to take the form of our feathered fellow beings, I invited the wind to lift my mortal gravitational bondage.
Eyes closed, mouth upturned at its right corner (my still-trademarked smirk), I took that magical leap. And landed in the street.
So much for youthful dreams. It was there I grasped the meaning of gravity, and except for about 200 hours of flight time with Dad in a tail-dragger Cessna, I’ve been grounded ever since.
Happy New 20s, my friend. May we all learn to soar above the trials we’ll face during this new decade.
Happy new year.....have a good flight....
ReplyDeleteThanks Greg. Happy ‘20!
DeleteHappy Happy New Year!
ReplyDelete