Crossing western Indiana Friday I flew over the top of a church spire and then dipped down to read the water tower. It said Elwood. My GPS was locked in the baggage compartment, something I didn’t notice until my right hand went to turn it on a half-an-hour after I left. I knew I was going west and had just followed the roads that divide the farms into giant Triscuit’s with no specific course in-mind. Playing ‘turn left – turn right’ with my plane I suppose. Elwood looked like all the towns I had grown up near, one long main street flanked with brick store fronts connecting the farms and small ranch homes to its center. These towns are the same ones I was dying to escape in my teens but this afternoon I didn’t want to leave so we circled homes, the church, the school, and dropped down into the fields; skimming the corn and lower still into the wheat and the beans. The smells in an open-cockpit are more earth than sky. Grass, exhaust, dust, and smoke are indicators of altitude and I rarely get to smell the chalky wetness of clouds or the dry, cold, crisp air above 5000 ft. Rising just to clear the wires on the edge of town I waved to a farmer as we crossed the small highway guarding the flanks of Elwood and I saw a faded runway. Then two appeared out of a bean field and they were covered in clover. Climbing to get a better look, it is or it was definitely an airport, complete with tattered windsock. Next to this perfect little strip was a small white Inn, pick-ups’ lining its parking lot. I circled to land and the touch-down was as I would have imagine it to be landing in a field of clover, soft and thick under the wheels, no momentum in the high grass.
I had lunch in the company of farmers and truckers, curious enough to watch me but not to ask who I was and where I was going. If they had asked I wouldn’t have had an answer anyway. The waitress finally questioned who’s plane that was, and if I had flown it by myself? I could answer those types of questions. Calling the cook out to talk, they explained that theirs’ was the oldest Fly-in Drive-in restaurant, but they don’t get many airplanes anymore. Apologetically adding that they are about to plow the field over to plant corn, a more lucrative crop then pilots. I finished my lunch and they followed me out, curious for photos by my clownish looking biplane.
I took off wondering if we would be the last vintage plane to land there, and how many other small airfields were plowing or paving their runways over this year? If I had my GPS, I surely would have punched in some three letter destination and I would have never found this place and had the best landing of my life. You see hiding between the tires and a runway of clover were a thousand butterflies laying in wait and when I touched down we forced them up, all those lemony yellow wings fluttered around ours like confetti. They were caught in the air between Blu’s wings for minutes and I pulled the power off so I could stay with them. Such a perfect surprise I can’t begin to describe it. No pictures to share and no one to witness it, but I promise it was magic. It was the best landing I ever made and I had nothing to do with it.
In the cool darkness of the shed the boy started to dream. Perhaps it was a dream, but no one can ever be sure if dreams aren’t real. He dream’t that wild men blew through the meadow with wind and blue flames in their hair. Flying biplanes and wearing boots as tall as their knees. They pulled the wind out of their hair and wrapped it around the barn like a scarf. Then the men blew flames across the beams to break the barn’s roof apart. With hands as big as hams, they picked up the wood and wove it into the plane’s wings. Then the wild men laid leather coats on the seats and took the shirts off their backs to patch the plane’s fabric with their sleeves. They laughed so loud it shook the ground. Then they poured gas from their flasks into the engine, until it glowed bright blue. When the plane was done, and shining like new, the wild men wrapped the wind around their necks again and blew back from where they blew in. Somewhere over the horizon, half-past the point of no return, the wild men danced with the wind over the top of the moon.
The boy remembered the words his father told him when he wanted to stop believing in things. “You’re wrong,” the boy said. “Believing never ends, it can be forgotten and remembered again. Believing begins with the words, I am. Small things hold the biggest secrets after all. When you start a thought with I am, anything is possible at the end. Starting a thought with, am I, is like starting a thought with I can’t! A thought that begins by saying, I AM, makes your thought end with I CAN.”
The boy was already past the orchard and through the field when the plane replied, “I believe you.” The plane smiled inside. It had been so long since the plane had a boy say, “I love you.”
He had majors to declare and graduate school to attend. Jobs to win and a house to buy, maybe two? He was such a busy young man, with so much to do. Lost in his ambition, he didn’t notice the P-51 flying past him until he heard the sound of a radial engine. He looked up and questioned, How could that be? That’s not the sound a Mustang makes. Just then he remembered what he had forgotten to remember again. Over the field, through the orchard, and past the old barn the young man ran. Tripping over his guilt, he fell short of his expectation’s at the door of the shed. Ashamed to face the plane he had left alone for so long. The young man stared at the door in front of him.
The young man turned the knob and peeked inside. Stacked floor to ceiling; boxes and bags and parts and pieces sat motionless in the dark. Just as he remembered them, but different. The plane looked tired and older then it had been. The young man opened the door wide to let the sunlight in, then gently brushed the dust off the corner of the wooden wing.
“Listen to me,” the plane said. “Stay out of the trees. There’s burble there. Burble is wind that’s lost its way. It doesn’t know what to do, it’s confused. Burble starts to listen to what the trees say, instead of what the wind knows is true. Burble in the trees can be very dangerous to you.
Listen to me. Learn to read the clouds. Indifference can turn to anger in an instant. If the clouds start to boil, bark, and turn dark, fly towards the light. Never stay in a dark sky. Learn to feel the gust front approaching and watch for ripples on your skin. They warn you that there is danger hiding within.
The next morning the young man sat on the dock of the lake, and hung his head over the edge with his legs. He was ashamed of the way he had treated the plane. He said inside, Forgive me, please? I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you. The sound of a radial engine answered him. A Beaver lifted off in the fog as his tears filled the empty space its float’s left on the surface of the lake. The young man knew what he had to do. So over the field, through the orchard, and past the old barn he ran once again.
eady past the orchard and through the field when the plane replied, “I forgive you. I love you too.” The plane smiled inside, grinning wing to wing. It had been so long since the plane had said, I love you too, to him. The young man did not know what the plane had mean’t, when ten years ago the plane had told him, “I used to fly with a little boy like you.” Planes live forever so time is different for them. The young man did not understand the little boy the plane used to fly with, was him.
Many years had passed, almost twenty, until the young man waded in the wheat again. He was now a man. So tall the wheat barely touched his knees. The young man had grown up to to be a very big deal indeed. Made a lot of money and was rich and famous. On this day he didn’t feel like a big deal at all. Counting all his would’ves, could’ves, and might-have-beens, the man didn’t notice the Stearman flying past him until he heard the sound of a radial engine. He looked up and remembered what he had forgotten to remember again. Just then the wind whipped a path across the wheat and waved at him. “Over here, follow me,” the wind beckoned. Following the rumble-clicking, lope, lope, loping of the radial engine the man ran. Over the field, through the orchard, and past the old barn. The shed was still there with the board nailed over the door. Just as he had left it so many years before.
The man ripped the board off the door with such force, the door flew from its hinges onto the floor. A whew flew out of him too. The plane would know what to do. “This is the worst day of my life. I’m about to lose everything. My job, my houses, my reputation, my money. What will people think of me? What should I do?
“I used to fly with a little boy like you,” the plane replied to what the man had not said. “He thought he had lost something that was very important to him too. I told him if he would be patient, he would see everything was going to be better soon. By the old panel, next to the very small clock, there’s a leather pouch. Please look in.”
he extra patience we had waiting to see you, so you could spend time doing all the things you never got to do.
“Dad. Dad, wake up,” a boy said. “What are you doing here? I saw a Cub fly by and followed it. Dad get up. Who’s Cub is this?”
The older man walked into the shed. It was empty except for a small piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up and saw it was the registration for the Cub outside the door. His name and address looked back at him. He turned the registration over and in his handwriting he saw his present. On the right, right after it, was written, Jr.. In the space where the paper had been, was a watch. It was the pilot’s watch he had sold on the worst day of his life. He lifted the watch to the light of the shed and read the inscription. I believe you can fly. Your Wish Twin.
I sat on the grass and talked to Meis. I asked Meis van der Rohe, “How could you do that, dear man?” Build a fortress of black bars and glass, in such a beautiful space, along the curve of Lake Michigan. Were your tower’s built to keep people out, or as a box to put them in? You’re a genius, what were you thinking? It was the day before my birthday and I wanted some time off to grow young again. Unthink and pretend. Watch the Air & Water Show by the lake and play with Cirque du Soleil. Why did you have to take that away? You took the present of the day and made it about the past. The oak trees planted outside your twin tower’s are mulched in black. The shade they provide is a shroud. Two black towers wearing a mourning cloak from the morning of 911. Meis your philosophy of ‘less it more’ doesn’t help me today. More is more on birthday’s. Have you met Antoni Gaudi? Have you’ve seen the La Sagrada Familia? I have. May I teach you something please?
Close your eyes. I have a present for you. No, it’s not your birthday but I wanted to give you something anyway. A before my birthday, birthday surprise. I couldn’t decide what we would like. What would be the perfect gift? You’ll have to tell me if I got it right. I think you’ll love it. No peeking. Hold out your hands. Don’t be fooled by the small size, there’s a treasure inside. Ready? Go ahead open your eyes. Let your present begin.
Schrödinger’s cat is standing by my wing. Flips a challenge coin and says, “Call.” Alive or dead. I’m too smart to fall for that old cat trick. Uncertainty is the only certainty a pilot knows. I know what to pick. Alive. Don’t you know pilot’s never die? We just go into a holding pattern in a different sky. We have nine lives too, just like you. Now quit being such a scaredy-cat and get in my front seat. I’ll take the very best care of you. I know what you’re really afraid of young Schrödinger’s cat. You’re afraid of being vulnerable. Afraid to pop the top off the box and see what happens next. I think we’re going to have a great flight. Make up your mind. I’m not going to offer again. Don’t you know who the fuck I am?
Has anyone seen Jimmie Allen? I’ve been looking all over for him. I stood in Russia with the Night Witches and pointed at his picture. “Do you recognize him?” All they said was, “Nyet.” I flew to Egypt to ask Count Almásy. “Have you seen Jimmie Allen?” László replied, “He doesn’t exist my dear, but I’m not really a Count either.” I flew to Rome to ask Balbo. He said, “Scusa, no.” I flew to Africa to ask Beryl Markham, “Have you seen Jimmie Allen?” She said, “No, but come back when you find him.” I hopped a boat to Hammondsport to ask Glenn Curtiss and then motored down the Hudson to Old Rhinebeck to see Cole. They said, “No one has seen Jimmie Allen but we’ve been waiting for him to show.” I stayed up all night waiting for Saint-Exupéry to fly over me in the Strait of Gibraltar. Yelled up to him from my deck chair. “Have you seen Jimmie St. Ex?” He said, “Non, ma fille douce. Bonne nuit.” I stopped Mermoz in Barcelona as he was leaving for Alicante. Jean had never heard of him. I went to the Mall at Roosevelt Field and I ran into Anne and Slim shopping incognito. The Lindbergh’s said, “No joy, but we know he’s out there somewhere.”
There were two other characters in the story. Two kids named Sarah and Buck. I named and modeled Buck after the noble sled dog in Jack London’s Call of the Wild. Buck had seen enough of ‘the Law of Club and Fang’ and left to explore on his boat after college. Returning to the wild. A storm forces Buck to land on Allan Island. He meets Jimmie and stay’s. He’s quite happy hanging out with the guy who thinks he’s St Exupéry. Reading, building, writing, playing music, inventing things. They enjoy each other’s company immensely. I gave Buck and Jimmie a very interesting way of communicating. They wrote what they had to say on pieces of paper, then folded the notes into paper airplanes, that they sent flying across the room to each other.
Sarah (me), finds Allan Island by chance after she “borrows” her father’s boat on her birthday. (I used to “borrow” things from my parents all the time without permission.) She can’t find a harbor. Circling the mysterious island, she talks to the cliffs. Not knowing someone is watching, Jimmie Allen plays a trick on her. Their conversation went like this…
‘The cop’ in my front seat and I have been friends for a very long time. Almost ten years. He came to sit with me at Sun-n-Fun in 2012, when Buddy’s restoration was completed. Still working three jobs and still a detective keeping his precinct’s together. He didn’t like his day job and seemed pretty blue. I told him I had a present for him. A clock. A bronze Richfield Oil clock from the 1930’s. I said, “Tick-tock my friend. You told me you wanted to be a professional writer and a published author. I believe you can do it. Maybe this clock will remind you to believe it too.” ‘The cop’ retired from the police force in 2014. Author, Jim Busha is now Director of EAA Publications and a professional writer with his own book.
An angel laid on my wing in the museum. Her name is Evie. She was eight and told me she wanted to be a veterinarian. I saw the angel again a few weeks ago. Now she wants to be a ballerina. Both are worthy vocations. She tap danced in sandals, for her parents and me, as the band played in the museum. Evie told us she see’s dead people. I said, “I believe you.” She laughed and just kept dancing. I see dead people too. Just among the living. Fairy princesses and noble knights locked in soul dungeons. Imprisoned by their lives and their adult decisions. Grown-up’s wanting to figure out what they want to be when they grow up. Quantum suicides, pulling the trigger again and again. Creating parallel persons, where they are both living and dead simultaneously.