Hot Air Balloons
During my silent writing hour with the A Writing Room group this morning, I wrote about what I called the hot air balloon years of my childhood.
The characteristic WHOOOSH! from an upstairs window could only mean one thing- a hot air balloon. I craned my neck for a better look, and suddenly there I would see it, a hot air balloon as it coasted past our house. The majestic display made my skin prickle. Sometimes they were so low we could hear the voices of the people on board. Our area was still fairly undeveloped back then, and hot air balloon companies ran launches quite frequently. They always caught that magical hour of golden light in the evenings. When we heard the balloons or saw them in the distance, and we hopped in the car to chase them. Do others do this? We did it all the time, usually stopping at the McDonalds in Romeo, Michigan for ice cream cones on the drive back. We often followed until we got to the open field where they came in to land- there were so many open fields back then. The landings felt intimate and hushed, a private ceremony reserved for family and friends, and we never lingered there. Once we saw that the balloon ride was coming to an end, we headed back home.
My dad’s first hot air balloon ride happened when I was quite young, probably about five. He and my maternal grandfather went together. We followed them around in the car, either my grandma or my mom driving, an anomaly right there, for my dad was usually the one who drove our car. I believe my aunt and uncle may have been with us as well.
I was little then, and sat below the window line of the car. As we twisted and turned to follow their balloon, my eyes reached for slivers of sky and my world spun. There was no horizon to grab onto as an anchor. Occasionally we stopped beneath them and got out of the car to wave. My dad and grandpa offered my greatest protection, yet there they were in a wicker basket, suspended in the air as a red hot flame erupted into the balloon as it floated by. My aunt Will jumped up and down and squealed. I felt sick.
We knew where they would be landing, and so eventually we drove there and parked along a bumpy patch of grass where other cars had gathered. There was a field and a hill. Kids ran up the hill and tumbled down, kicking up gnats and dandelion fluff. I joined in, keeping an eye to the sky as I rolled. And finally there they were, the balloons, cresting over the treetops and lowering down to the ground. Only they came in too hard, and the basket hit the ground and tipped onto its side. A rocky landing, but they were back.
There is a picture of my dad holding me after this balloon ride. The photograph is dark, taken without the flash, and the sky is dimmed. It is almost nighttime, . My grandpa stands next to us in his wine-colored wind breaker that he wore so often in the spring and summer. His hair is windblown and he has his hand on my back. He is smiling. You can see the exhilaration on both of their faces, having completed this ride. I look happy as well, though, looking more closely at my small face, I also see relief.
