Leaving Dreams Behind and Chasing Balloons

I always sleep with the windows open, even in the winter - though just a crack. When I moved to New York a few years ago, about a week of sleepless nights followed before the sirens, voices, music, and passing cars were as lulling as the whippor-wills had been. I've since re-acclimated to the night birds and tree frogs, waking up only occasionally when my brother sings to the darkness, or Dad heads downstairs for an early morning snack.

The sounds of these woods are the same as I remember from childhood. Well, except then Mum put me to bed before dark. I'd lay in bed - the window open, a sheet covering, my blankey faithfully devoted to my side (silky binding on my nose), always the same thumb in my mouth - and I'd wait for the sun to go down and the whippor-wills to begin their song.

Whooosh! Whooosh! Like short blasts of a blow torch, just at sunrise, I'd hear the hot air balloons rising up above the treeline. Our backyard is a field and then forest, and the balloons would elevate and coast over the pines and birches, then float down to land on the vast stretch of timothy and dandelions.

Whooosh! I opened my eyes and sat up to search out the window - nothing yet, just trees standing still and fog wafting off the grass. I hugged my blankey and slipped out of bed, quietly hurrying to the office for a better view. A double window with no panes in the center of the back wall of our home. Whooosh! Still nothing...oh, there! A sliver of red rising - now fuller... orange! yellow! It must be a rainbow-colored one - that's my favorite!

I ran across the hall to wake Mum and Dad. A hot air balloon! A hot air balloon!

Mum got up and rushed on her gardening sneakers - the ones morning dew couldn't possibly worsen. Dad rubbed his eyes, yawning his lion's yawn, and climbed out of bed while we made it outside and across the field toward their landing zone. Whooosh! The balloon, in it's beautiful entirety, now drifted completely above the trees and closer to us. Hello, balloon! We'd huddle together in the fresh coolness of early air and watch it descend. Some pilots landed gracefully, some bumped and jostled their grinning passengers. This one hovered, then patted the ground gently like a grandfather on his favorite grandchild's shoulder. Finally it rested still and the family inside climbed out.

Mum and I stayed to watch the balloon lay down and rest, deflate, and be rolled into its carrying bag. Dad arrived for the champagne toast with a good-morning smooch for Mum, a grizzly-bear hug for me. I would always tell him, You missed the best part! He'd raise his glass and shrug - Well, here's to the next time, then, Sala.

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Yesterday morning I went to the Sunday-start of the High Hopes Balloon Festival to try my hand at crewing for a hot air balloon. Aunt Honi, who's not really my aunt, flies a balloon called "Amazing Grace" - Soaring to New Heights in His Amazing Grace, and at five-twenty in the morning I joined her established crew to send her up, chase her to the land zone, and take her down.

I used to want to be a storm chaser - following the weather patterns and then navigating to the storm zone to catch the twister and speed out of its path. That was in fifth grade. We were studying tornadoes (When we studied the planets I wanted to be an astronaut; went to Washington, D.C. - an F.B.I. agent.). Anyway, chasing a hot air balloon is somewhat comparable. Not dangerous, and far more predictable, but the winds are still controlled by the LORD alone, and as we followed her through the sky, communicating by walkie-talkie, we changed our course of travel several times to finally track her down. We saw no lightning or flying debris, but we did finish the chase with a cool glass of sparkling cider - and four happy passengers, safely on the ground.


Note: the balloons pictured are not from Sunday, but they give an idea of what you'd see.