jumpingfish

When we spoke last, I was recounting a trip to Kentucky. I need to finish the story, and to do that we need to pick up where we left off…

We met in the hotel restaurant for breakfast at 8:00 the morning of ceremony day. Burt and Jenny were there first, of course. And Bette was … Wait, I got that wrong. Of course Bette got there first, having shown up 20 minutes early (just in case). Or was it…

In any event, they were seated there drinking coffee when we wandered in, my mother, my brother and I. Wait, truth be told, we probably didn’t wander in together, since we’d all slept in the same room and had to stagger our use of the shower that morning. Or maybe we waited for each other in the room before we came down. Or …

Well one thing is probably sure: they were all sitting at the table when I wandered in—last (or tied for it). Kind of par for the course with me and mornings.

So there we were in that spacious, sunny room, drinking coffee and eating a mighty fine breakfast served up by students from the college. I should have taken notes, because our talk and laughter covered a lot of ground. Two hours flashed by.

Although from the look on his face, Burt was a bit preoccupied with the upcoming ceremony and the speech he was preparing, for the rest of us it was a luxury to be there that morning with family from far away. It was an absolute joy, even if I didn’t take notes, which might have made the telling of this story a tad bit more compelling.

We made quick work of that cornish hen in spite of the orgy of corn bread and butter that we had earlier in the day.

There are presents beside the fireplace, wrapped and waiting for tomorrow morning. There are dogs snoozing in their foo-foo sweaters, exhausted from the day. Ben will be coming back from his mom’s sometime late or maybe in the morning. We cannot keep our eyes open to find out which.

“What time is it?” Trudy asked me. “I wonder if we can go to bed, yet.”

“It is 9:50,” I replied from the computer room.

I heard an exclamation of glee, and I have heard nothing since.

I know what that means. Yet here I am at the keyboard, eyelids drooping, head rolling from side to side.

Trudy had the right idea, as she of course always does. So I’ll draw things to a close, now.

May all your holidays be bright.

Sunrise 2

“What’s that?” the boy asked his father.

There was a tremble in his voice. The jet was roaring, and their seats where shaking as they raced down the runway.

“We’re taking off,” his dad said, nodding to the window. “Watch.”

The boy turned and put his nose to the window.

White lines on the runway raced by. And then the airport terminal. And then other jets on the tarmac. And trucks with big tanks on the back. And then their plane pitched upward.

A moment later is was quiet, except for the whining of turbofans.

“Daddy?” the boy said, turning back.

“Keep watching,” his father said, pointing out the window.

It was grey outside. It had rained that day, and dark clouds hung in the sky.

“Daddy, the clouds are getting closer,” the boy said, face still fixed at the window.

“And daddy, we’re in the clouds. And daddy… look!”

At that moment the airplane broke thru the cloud deck and emerged on the other side. White cloud tops passed beneath them. The sky above them was clear. And in the east, the day was dawning.

“Oh daddy,” the boy shouted. “It’s the sun!”

I looked out across the runway and saw five Stratotankers sitting in a row. And a sixth in a hanger. They quietly sat there on the far side of the airfield as commercial planes came and went.

As I stood at the window of the terminal, two of the jets began to move.

Together they left their parked positions and taxied slowly to the end of the runway. As commercial jets landed, they waited to take off.

And when they were next on the runway, they turned and began to roll toward the terminal.

But KC-135s are big planes, and they need a lot of runway, so I figured that from where I was standing, they would just roll by, and I would miss them climbing into the air.

So as the first one turned, I dashed to the other side of gate 12 to another set of floor-to-ceiling windows. And lo, the first jet came roaring past and pulled its nose into the air, just as a Southwest 737 taxied by.

And then the second one followed the first.

Snap. Snap. Snap. My camera fired off rapid shots, catching them as they took off.

Am I allowed to do this? Is someone going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me to stop? Is this a breach of security? Don’t laugh. I’ve been told to put my camera down before as I took pictures out the window of a plane. So I’m wondering and half expecting a reprimand.

But none comes.

The jets take off. I take my pictures. An elderly man several seats down talks to a friend about KC-135s and points out the window. And I put my camera away.

My father took me to the airport, I am told, when I was very young. He took me to watch the airplanes, and I suppose my future was determined from those moments. I have always loved watching airplanes and being in airport terminals with great, broad windows looking out on the airfield, permitting a luxurious view of the takeoffs and landings.

And today was no exception. I stood there at the window watching the airplanes as they rolled by and took off and landed. As others around me ate hurried lunches or listened to music or watched the overhead television sets, my attention was directed outside.

My dad is responsible for this.

But I feel like I did something wrong taking those pictures as those tankers took off. I feel as if there was some kind of rule that I broke.

How sad is it that?

She wore a white sweater and had a pink scarf wrapped around her neck and a fuzzy coat with leopard-like spots. She turned to him as he sat in the window seat writing in a small, gray notebook.

“Is that a journal?” she asked.

He set his pencil down and turned to her.

“Yes it is,” he said. “I’ve kept one for a long time, but I don’t write on paper much anymore.”

She smiled and said, “I don’t keep a journal.”

He nodded.

“You write like my son,” she said. “His letters look just like yours. And he’s left handed, too.”

He looked down at the mechanical pencil in his left hand: Pentel 0.5mm with 2B leads.

“Is he an engineer?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He’s an architect.”