w i n t e r
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The bermuda grass is turning back green, rising from its dormancy one more time. Last weekend was the first time I'd had to cut the lawn this year. Mostly crabgrass, slowly overtaking the fine, soft, cool bermuda, but there is enough of the dormant grass coming back to warrant the first clipping to tame it low.
The yard smelled strong of onions and even though I was sweating it was cold and overcast.
The sound of the Briggs & Stratton motor drifted away and I pruned the crape myrtle in silence. Clip. Clip. Clip. Soon I had enough sticks to dry for fire-starting next year.
At this point I sat on the back steps and had a PBR. Cold, overcast, raining, it makes no difference.
The robins were out in force. They have been ever since I tilled the back yard. They come to the newly overturned earth and pull up long squirming earth worms. They rarely fly, just hop from one end of the yard to the other, filling their crops.
The compost needs turning.
I've dishes to do.
I've better things to write.
I've an airplane to fix.
I've naps to take. Naps where I stick to the leather and lay and smoke and think and fall into dream.
I've nothing I didn't have yesterday or the day before that or the day before that as well.
But the previous day...now that was something.
dragonfly
I was sitting on the ramp in Southern Pines, elbows deep in grease and gasoline. I should've known better. The jug I was supposed to put back on the plane didn't come in and so I found myself with a long day ahead and no prospect of flying. It was a beautiful Saturday and my stomach was full and it was only 10:30 am but I was drinking a beer anyway.
I'd already pulled the left main gear and the tail wheel, taken out the bearings, determined they were shot and removed the races. I'd sent one fella out for bearings and so I was alone on the ramp cleaning spark plugs when the attendant in the golf cart pulled up.
"What are the runways at Carthage?"
"13-34 I think, why?"
"Fella's goin' in there in a Bonanza with no power."
"Oh."
And that was it. I thought about the guy. I hoped he had the altitude and wished he'd had a little more to make it to Southern Pines. Poor guy was only 1.3 miles from 5500 feet of wide runway. The best he'd get at Carthage was a bumpy, tar-coated, tree lined runway barely 2000 feet long. Plenty, as long as he didn't blow his approach, and he was only gonna get one.
And I picked up plug number 11, forgetting about it as a forethought.
Across the ramp was an interesting little airplane called a dragonfly and it looks like one for all the world. Just like a damn dragonfly. Pretty little plane. A homebuilt. Took the guy 16 years and I kept thinking there's no way you'd get me up in that thing. And then I thought if he asked me right now to go, wouldn't I, without even thinking about it? Yeah, I would. I'd take one more pull off that beer and climb right in.
It was one of those days. A day where even my fears couldn't touch me. Where even my sense stays away. Where there is nothing but chaos around me, airplanes literally falling from the sky, and I don't give it a second thought.
A day free from the regular cycle, but somehow inclusive as well. Lunch was free. There was just enough beer, but not too much. Smokes tasted good and the muscles in my arms responded well and looked healthy in the light, clinched as I torqued the plugs back into the radial Lycoming.
Maybe next week she and I will both be ready to fly.
goodnight 3.23.00