I was walking with Deidre yesterday evening when I heard a familiar rumble from the sky. It was nice to hear because in my new home, overflights are rare. This bad boy was heading northeast, and through the telephoto lens he looked like he was really moving along. It didn’t look like he was going land anytime soon. According to my iPhone, this was a 757 and the destination was Frankfurt. How about that?
I miss airplanes. When I lived in Portland, the sky was never empty. My school sat next to the airport, so every ten minutes brought the sound of big passenger planes lumbering aloft, carrying people or freight to places far away. Often I’d hear F-15’s from the adjacent National Guard base rattling the windows. After school, I’d walk to tutoring assignments in Northeast and stop to watch the FedEx twin-engine props come in low, bringing in evening deliveries from the rest of the state.
I loved it all. One, the sky wasn’t so lonely, and two, airplanes make me happy. Every flight seems like a miracle. Airplanes remind us that we as a species are pretty damn clever. In fact, we’re so smart that we routinely tell gravity to go to hell, and we come back to earth when we’re good and ready.