Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Barb and Gwendie’s Excellent Hot Air Balloon Ride

Barb and Gwendie’s Excellent Hot Air Balloon Ride


The “release from liability” form required by the Asheville Hot Air Balloon company specifically asked if I was in good health and did not have any condition that could be affected by the balloon ride. Of course I said I was (in good health) and did not (have a condition), which, ahem, was a serious stretch of the truth. But hey, riding in a hot air balloon has always been on my “bucket list”—maybe not number one or number two, but on there just the same. And when a dear friend offered to treat me (as in, pay) for me to go along with her, what could I do? No was not an option.

Another dear friend, dearest Jane of Oops50, volunteered to come and take pictures. Äs it turns out, she also brought along her youngest, Josie, who turned out to be a great camera guru and shutterbug.

So, there we are at sun-up (the moon was still bright in the sky on the drive to the meeting place), a gaggle of grumpy, un-breakfasted balloon riders and followers, waiting for our pilot(s). Actually, there were two pilots as one couple was taking a romantic two-person flight and the other eight of us surmised that an engagement was about to take place aloft.

Here comes the pilot in a big van, followed by two trucks towing wicker baskets. Yes, wicker. Although on closer inspection, there was more steel, upholstery, rope, and fire-proof padding on the inside than there was wicker on the outside. But still, very picturesque.

After a thorough (and amusing) pre-flight briefing, during which the pilot did mention that there was no graceful way for a “lady” to get into or out of the basket---boy, was he right about that—we loaded into the van to drive to the lift-off field. We wound up after many twists and turns on narrow curvy mountain roads at a level grassy field, probably the size of two football fields. The crew was already getting the balloons spread out ready to inflate. I’d have been happy enough just to see this part—the giant fans, the billowing multi-hued balloons, the large propane burners. It was awe-inspiring. But the best was yet to come.


After a very cumbersome and ungainly climb up and into our basket (which held 8 passengers plus pilot)—enough said about that, the pictures tell it all, we watched the smaller balloon lift off and then, whoosh, with hardly a sound and no sense of motion at all, we were off!

Oh, what a sight. What a feeling. Calm, serene, cool, except when the pilot lit the burner to take us higher. It was like floating in the air, exactly like it, I guess. The closest experience I’d ever had before similar to this was on a small sailboat on a calm lake with just enough breeze to move us along slowly. But what a different perspective—to look DOWN on the earth like a bird, and moving sideways at a slow enough rate to see the lay of the land, the cars and trucks on the roads, the hayfields, the pastures, the houses and outbuildings. It was gorgeous. And looking out, there were the mountain tops, and fog, and clouds, and the other balloon. (We soon got word over the two-way radio that the guy had proposed in the other balloon, and she accepted. We yelled congratulations at them but probably they were to busy to hear us.) We could hear dogs barking, but little else except our own voices.

And then we noticed the shadow of our balloon on the ground, and then in the fog, and then, somehow the light and the fog combined to make a rainbow all around our shadow. Miraculous! Even the pilot was taking pictures of this.

We had one little thrill, when the pilot (deliberately) flew us through some treetops—the basket was covered in limbs and leaves, but the balloon was still higher above. Pretty exciting. It turns out they often use trees to slow the balloon/basket down on landing, so the pilot wanted us to have the experience before he HAD to do it.

Well, even bucket list experiences don’t last forever, and we did come down, in a different field several miles from where we took off, and although we did scrape the trees coming in, the bump was minimal. And then the chase crew members were holding onto ropes and the basket and we were climbing out—just about as ungracefully as we entered, speaking for myself, of course.

-Our faithful Jane and Josie were there to meet us, having taken hundreds of photos, many of them spectacular, and our little group went off to breakfast and ooohs and ahhhhs at the photos of our trip.

A once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, I’m sure. I’m old enough and infirm enough and impecunious enough that there probably won’t be another balloon ride for me. But once is wonderful. Believe me.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Grandmother-hood

Grandmother-hood

I’m an old grandmother. Well, I’m not so very old, just 68 years young as my cancer doctor says, but old to be just now having a grandchild. Actually that’s not even quite true. I have three step-grandchildren from a previous marriage. But this new one, this precious little angel girl who was born last Thanksgiving Day to my son Jonathan and his beloved Irena (no, they’re not married—does anyone do that anymore?), is one of the great gifts of my life.

You see, three short years ago I was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer (the incurable kind). At that time, my son was adrift in life—a college graduate with no permanent job, no “significant other”, no idea what he should do with his life. He lived with me for the first year after the diagnosis, being there for me during the mastectomy and the first harsh chemo. But as I grew stronger, so did he, and he left to find his way in life several states away. I was glad for him. Even gladder when he found a job, an apartment, and some months later, a ladyfriend. But when they got pregnant and were thrilled at the prospect of a baby, I was more than glad for them. And then, when adorable Daisy was born, I was so happy for them and so grateful for me.

Grateful because I’ve been given this time, even with cancer, or maybe especially with cancer, to see my own progeny grow and mature and begin to experience the wondrous gifts of life—love of a spouse or partner and love of a child. And such a child—the most beautiful, sweet precious little creature on earth—something most grandmothers say, but in my case, it’s true. (Smile.)

Although I would love to be here to see little Daisy birth her own little daughter, my age and my health give me next-to-no chance of that. But for me, the very fact that she exists, that she’s so loved by her parents and her grandparents and the rest of her family gives me great satisfaction and a belief that “my work here is done.” The continuation of the species, of MY family, of my genes, has been accomplished. It seems to tidy up the package of my life nicely.

As it does for mothers and grandmothers everywhere, my heart melts when I see Daisy, whether in person or in photos, or on Skype video, smiling and bubbling and looking right at me. At the same time, my spine stiffens and my resolve hardens to continue to contest this chronic cancer as long as I can. For Daisy, but mostly for me. It’s the Grandmother Treatment for cancer. And so far, it’s working.

Peggy’s prompt---the coffee was cold

Peggy’s prompt---the coffee was cold

The coffee was cold by the time we got back from the emergency room. Luckily, the coffeemaker was on a timer and turned itself off, otherwise we might have come home to scorched coffeepot, or worse yet, a house fire. As if we didn’t have enough troubles already. First the scene at the school yesterday, where Marty, the eight year old screamed at the principal that he didn’t do it, although it was never very clear exactly what it was that he didn’t do. Then Joe calls this morning from the side of the freeway—he’s had a flat and is waiting for Roadside Assistance. Can I come and get his laptop and take it to his office for his assistant to start scheduling all the calls he needs to make? Sure, I say, whatever. Then, the thing with Teresa, the two year old, in the kitchen. I was pretty sure that she was just pulling one of her little tantrums, where she holds her breath until she turns blue, but something said no this is different, so I did the Heimlich on her and sure enough she hacked up a piece of apple. She must have found it on the floor. I don’t know where else she would have gotten it. Anyhow, I thought I’d better take her in to be checked out, just in case. And she’s fine. Unhappy, but she’s fine. I’m not fine, though. I was just about to have my first morning cup of brew when she started the blue thing and by the time I got her dressed for the ER and stopped by to get Marty’s laptop and went to the ER and came home, the damn coffee was cold. Sometimes you just can’t catch a break.

Peggy’s prompt-----the building across the street

Peggy’s prompt-----the building across the street


The building across the street from my house, my school, my job, my grandmother’s house, the bank, the courthouse, the beach, on US 1, from the house I lived in in college,

When I was in college, I lived in a “scholarship” house, which housed 25-28 “poor but brilliant” (according to the Jacksonville newspaper story about us) young women. In our case, because our house was sponsored by the Florida Education Association, we were all education majors, and we were sometimes called the FEA girls. As opposed to the Theta Chi girls, or the Phi Mu girls, I suppose. Anyhow, the Florida State University campus had a reputation as a “party school”, garnered in most part by the numerous and powerful “Greek” sororities and fraternities whose residences for members surrounded the FSU campus. It was a given that if FEA girls were poor enough to need a housing scholarship, by definition we couldn’t afford (and weren’t allowed) to join a sorority. We were part of the great unwashed GDI’s (God Damn Independents) whether we wanted to be or not.

The majestic building across the side street from our house housed a favored campus sorority. So from our windows, our porch swing, our yard, we could witness up close and personal the various rituals of sorority life, from “rush” week, to pinning ceremonies, to panty raids, to used condoms flung into our yard from vehicles parked on their side of the street. None of these ever made me very kindly disposed to sorority life, particularly the used condoms, as, unlike the sorority girls, we FEA girls were in charge of the upkeep of our property.

So the street was effectively a dividing line between the “haves’ (the sorority sisters), and the “have nots”, the scholarship girls. Secretly, we thought we had the better deal—great roommates, no booze in the house, pride in our academic achievements, graduate school in our plans. But there was no getting around the fact that socially, on campus, we were invisible, and the sorority sisters across the street were Homecoming Queen, Student Body President, cheerleaders, and well-dressed.

I felt right at home with my scholarship girlfriends, given my start in life as the daughter of a commercial fisherman and an academic nerd—pretty far down on the social scale. I’ve never regretted for a day that I was one of them. In fact, those four years as an FEA girl were incredibly transforming for me and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But it was a lesson in how individual merit counts for only so much; what group you belong to also counts a lot. And I was lucky to be on “the wrong side” of the street in Tallahassee, Florida in the early 1960’s.

Peggy’s prompt---what draws her to it

Peggy’s prompt---what draws her to it

What draws her to it is the resemblance it has to her grandparents’ house in Oviedo, Florida. It has the tin roof, the covered porch along one side, the bay window in the front, and xxxxxx palms out front. An Old Florida house, a relic of an earlier time, before air-conditioning, before McMansions, before great rooms, even before Florida rooms. (If you missed out on Florida rooms, those were usually glassed and screened in side rooms, often built after the original house, designed to let in air and light, a more casual room than the formal living room.) This house isn’t nestled in a citrus grove, nor does it have a water pump in the side yard. Also missing are the firecracker plants that allured hummingbirds to the porch on hot summer days. But it does have one live oak with hanging Spanish moss to cool the tin roof in summer.

By the time I was about eight years old, my grandparents had moved from the house in Oviedo to a bigger one in Orlando, which also had citrus trees and live oaks with Spanish moss on the property. And the porch had a tin roof. But the “cross the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go” house of my earliest childhood still lives in my memories—all of them good memories, which is odd for me, as many of the houses I’ve lived in have bad memories associated with them, as well as the good.

At Grandmother and Granddaddy’s house, there were still toys left over from their own children’s youth—a toy grand piano, which I loved to play, a toy kitchen cupboard with real glass in the doors, some toy dishes, plus a Chinese checkerboard and marbles that had a regular checkerboard on the other side. Granddaddy would plan checkers with me, and he’d let me jump a few of his men before he wiped up the board and beat me royally. I don’t remember if I cried, but it would have been like me to do so. Grandmother played Chinese checkers with me, and not only did she teach me strategies, she usually let me win. But if my mother played, too, then Grandmother would try to beat Mama, while still letting me win. Must have been challenging for her!

Plus they had a wall telephone and were on a party line, so we had to listen when the phone rang to see if it was for the Hunters. My uncle Arthur, whom they called Junior or Billy, had sent them several Japanese paper umbrellas with elaborate scenes from someplace in the Pacific where his ship was deployed. Grandmother would let me use one very carefully to keep the sun off my head when we walked next door to visit Mrs. Morgan. After they got the word that Uncle Arthur had died when his ship was torpedoed near the Philippines, the umbrellas disappeared from their place in the brass umbrella stand. (Which I now have at my house.)

I remember the long dining room table, with room for 8 or 10 people to sit around, and the spot next to Granddaddy at the head of the table where my high chair sat. Granddaddy always had his own salt cellar at his place setting (could this have contributed to the strokes he eventually had?) and he would let me get a pinch of salt to sprinkle on my food, too.

There is a family story about that dining room that has been repeated many times by my aunts and my mother. The story goes that my two aunts had their current military boyfriends visiting for dinner, and my mother was also there with me. During the lively discussion that was occurring all around me, someone noticed that I was crying silently. “Child, why are you crying?” my grandfather said to me, to which I replied in all innocence, “I’m not getting enough attention!” (It starts early, doesn’t it?)

Peggy’s Prompt—when she was young

Peggy’s Prompt—when she was young


How shall I begin? With “when she was young” or with something else? Back in the day; when we was kids, growin’up; she was a handful when she was young;

When she was young, she never once thought about being old, but now that she’s old, she frequently thinks about being young. Young, when she awoke in the morning with no aches and pains, no tired eyes, no desperate need to pee, when the sky through the window was blue, the clouds were pink and fluffy, and the scent of orange blossoms or night-blooming cereus drifted in on the breeze. She’d give a lot for one of those mornings again, but she knows it won’t happen.

Time does not reverse. Time is the most linear thing in the universe, she thinks. Although you can stretch it out with boredom, or shorten it with fear, it still marches forward, either upward or downward, but never backwards. There was a time when she’d fritter away hours, even days, waiting for the next good thing, but now she hates to waste a minute by “doing nothing”, even if, or especially if the time could have been spent in watching her cats stretch, or the birds fly to the feeder, or the squirrel jump from the tree to the telephone pole. These are the good moments, the everyday precious moments that bring pleasure and gladness. Moments not wasted on attending to the random thoughts that pour through her head, coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, but eating up the never-to-be-regained moments of her treasured life.