Werth Air Circus
It is early morning and I am on the back porch of the farmhouse. I can smell the coal fires in the air. The dirty smell of coal that we and the neighbors are using in the coal stoves this morning to drive our the slight chill and the dew. The sky is clear and the grass is heavy with dew.
On the round tops of the hills that make up the back acreage I can see airplanes. Vintage airplanes. Vintage World War I and World War II Airplanes. "Oh,I see", I think to myself, "We are running an air circus."
On cue, the first bus of tourist make the uncomfortable left turn into the gravel drive way, up the red dog, and start filing out when the bus comes to a complete stop. Stan come out of the back door and I, for just a second, can smell the bacon grease in the air. It reminds me I need to go in and get a jacket.
Stan is here. He reminds me I have a show to do. There are tourists here and some one needs to fly the planes. I understand that these planes are no ours, but part of a company that has an interest in the farm and we need them to keep what we have. Ultimately it means that I have to fly one of these ancient planes.
I gaze around the area and look at my options. There is a broken down World War I dirigible observation craft, half deflated, gray and quilted, drooping and overgrown on one of the far banks. I feel the presence of the corporate entity that runs this show, making demands of me, wanting me to maintain military bearing. I will not do that.
Disheartened that any organization would demand that anyone would fly in, what is now alarmingly becoming obvious, badly abused museum pieces, builds a fire inside of me that comes out for good or ill. I am commanded to get in a bi-plane and proceed to the other end of that farm and pick up a flight jacket that numbers me among the members of a WWII aircraft carrier. I am to fly over there and pick up the jacket mid air.
I refuse and walk over to the jacket. After many minutes, I arrive and look at the back of the cracked leather flight jacket. On the back is a tattered emblem that actually has a White Water Rafting Advertisement on it. I am disgusted and head back.
The tour bus has loaded up and is pulling out. Stan talks with me after that, and approves. We get in the 1968 baby blue Rambler Ambassador 4-door and head down the road together. I can smell the moth ball scented interior.
On the round tops of the hills that make up the back acreage I can see airplanes. Vintage airplanes. Vintage World War I and World War II Airplanes. "Oh,I see", I think to myself, "We are running an air circus."
On cue, the first bus of tourist make the uncomfortable left turn into the gravel drive way, up the red dog, and start filing out when the bus comes to a complete stop. Stan come out of the back door and I, for just a second, can smell the bacon grease in the air. It reminds me I need to go in and get a jacket.
Stan is here. He reminds me I have a show to do. There are tourists here and some one needs to fly the planes. I understand that these planes are no ours, but part of a company that has an interest in the farm and we need them to keep what we have. Ultimately it means that I have to fly one of these ancient planes.
I gaze around the area and look at my options. There is a broken down World War I dirigible observation craft, half deflated, gray and quilted, drooping and overgrown on one of the far banks. I feel the presence of the corporate entity that runs this show, making demands of me, wanting me to maintain military bearing. I will not do that.
Disheartened that any organization would demand that anyone would fly in, what is now alarmingly becoming obvious, badly abused museum pieces, builds a fire inside of me that comes out for good or ill. I am commanded to get in a bi-plane and proceed to the other end of that farm and pick up a flight jacket that numbers me among the members of a WWII aircraft carrier. I am to fly over there and pick up the jacket mid air.
I refuse and walk over to the jacket. After many minutes, I arrive and look at the back of the cracked leather flight jacket. On the back is a tattered emblem that actually has a White Water Rafting Advertisement on it. I am disgusted and head back.
The tour bus has loaded up and is pulling out. Stan talks with me after that, and approves. We get in the 1968 baby blue Rambler Ambassador 4-door and head down the road together. I can smell the moth ball scented interior.
posted by Ion Farmer at 2:54 AM
1 Comments:
Good words.
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