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.

I would be upstairs on a summer evening, standing near an open window, and suddenly would hear a characteristic blowing sound, which could only mean one thing- a hot air balloon. I would crane my neck, peering out the window to try to get a better look, and suddenly there I would see it, as it coasted past our house. The area was still fairly undeveloped back then, and hot air balloon companies ran launches in the evenings. They always caught that magical hour of golden light that came with the sunsets. And my parents, particularly my mother, loved going on evening car rides. We would hear the balloons or see them in the distance, and we’d hop in the car and go out driving to chase them. We would often follow them until we got to the field where they landed- there were so many open fields back then.

My dad went on a couple hot air balloon rides during this time. The first one happened when I was quite young, probably about five, and he went with my grandpa DeLisle. I remember being a little frightened during the time when they were up in the air. We followed them around in the car, either my grandma or my mom driving- and actually, I think my memory also holds that my aunt and uncle may have been with us as well.

Because I was young and sat below the window, as we drove around and made twists and turns to follow their balloon, I remember feeling like my world was spinning. Occasionally we stopped beneath them and got out of the car to wave. I didn’t like the anxiety of knowing that my dad and grandpa were up high like that, and I was scared. The excited squealing of the adults around me didn’t help.

We knew where they would be landing, and so eventually we drove there, parking in an impromptu patch of grass where other cars had gathered. There was a field and a hill, which kids were running up and tumbling down, kicking up gnats and dandelion fluff. I think I joined in, while also 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, which I guess happens with hot air balloon landings. I think my grandpa injured his side slightly when they fell.

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 I remember him wearing so often in the spring and summer. His hair is a bit of a mess 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, looking more closely at my small face, I see relief.