Burntcore Week 63: Power of Flight

Burntcore
Thursday


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Picture 2


Burntcore's Choice: Picture 2


Title: Power of Flight

It was a cool spring evening in Cleveland. The cicadas were chirping but it was hard to here them where we were. My boyfriend and I, a guy I would only end up dating for a few somewhat tulmultous months, were laying on our backs against a large mound of dirt outside of Hopkins Airport, near where the Bomb Squad resturant was.

Neither one of us were sure who owned the property, but this field cleary had been used to dump dirt from excavation projects at one time. Other cars were parked in a graveled area of the field, the occupants with their eyes to the sky like Mike and I were.

Thankfully, Mike had planned this night and had brought a blanket so we weren’t laying direclty on the dirt. It wouldn’t have mattered that much to me anyway. I wasn’t afraid of a little dirt.

My gaze was too entranced watching the planes take off and land. The noise the big 747s, 737s, and other jumbo aircraft made was sometimes earthshattering, but awe inspiring at the same time. It was hard to believe that something as big as those airliners could actually fly.

This was before 9/11 and all the security measures that came afterward. Now you can’t just sit and watch the planes without being arrested or strongly encouraged to move along. Back then with Mike was my first time to watch the activity at the busy international airport, but not my first time to plane watch.

Back when I was younger, before I was in high school, I used to go to a small, local airport on the weekends with my brother and father. My brother was taking flying lessons there and the usual crowd of people at the airport treated us like family. It was a common occurance for the gang to hang out at the airport. Not everyone flew their planes, of the few that actually owned one, but would just hang out and watch tv or lounge outside in the picnic area. Or, go watch the small single or double prop planes come in and take off, something I loved to do. These planes looked like they glided across the air effortlessly.

I don’t know what exactly about airplanes held my fascination, but they did. Perhaps it was mastery of the sky, to be up there among the clouds I yearned to touch, among the birds I yearned to fly near. Whatever the reason, when I grew up, my love of airplanes did not fade.

Which led me to the night in question outside of Hopkins airport, lying on a blanket in the dirt. It was awesome. We laid there and talked inbetween take off and landings. When the planes were coming and going, it was too loud to do anything but stare at the aircraft or each other. I was too shy to do anything outside like we were, and our relationship was really too new for me to want to do much, but it was a great evening.

I would watch those huge, lumbering aircraft and wonder about the people that were inside, where they were going, what kind of lives they had. I dreamed that one day I would be one of those people, flying away like a shooting stars, shooting into the sky.

My relationship with Mike may have had a short lifespan, but my love of airplanes continued, even now. When my husband and I go on vacation, I’m always eager to fly. Him? Not so much. He prefers to stay on the ground. I refuse to travel cross-country in a car. Give me a plane any day, and maybe there is someone else down on the ground, wishing and wondering, as we take off into the sky.