Rumour has it that in our town there is an aviator of ancient age who flies his small craft over the wooded hills and dales just above the treetops, who has a penchant for cutting his motor and drifting on the wind.
I have been told of this right off when I say where I live, so the old aviator has a bit of a state-wide reputation for this particular need to cut his engine and thus me little village (if you can even call it that) has a precarious claim to fame (of sorts).
Now I have lived here three summers and the first I heard the low flying craft, as it rattled the ice in me iced tea glass and shook the hammock I had ensconced meself in, was the first summer of me living where I do. But I hadn't heard the silence of cut off engine until me second summer.
The one thing I love about where I live is the peace and tranquility which takes quiet to another level. All one hears is the birds or the wind in the pines and thats it. Now on occasion I am rudely awakened out of that lovely feeling by the old tin can that comes rattling out of the skies. But that was nothing, me slight annoyance of interrupted dreaming in me hammock ended the first time I was aware the engine of the old rattle trap cut off! I tell ya, for a minute there, and from somewhere in the back of me sleepy brain, I had thoughts he had flown over quicker than usual and was gone UNTIL I heard the spat, spit, sputter of an engine trying to turn over. Then it was an oh my God moment, where be that old dude? Is he just above me and about to drop on me out of the sky? It sets ones heart to racing when one realises the reality of the situation IF he can't get that engine to start!
You would think by the end of that fateful summer I'd be used to the engine cut offs, and the sputtering of the engine trying to fire over me house and me head, but no, it be a feeling of dread and foreboding, of crossing fingers he gets the thing started, eyes squeezed shut the impact of his falling plane doesn't hurt me too badly, body in a tense position waiting impact, breath held until finally, after what seemed an inordinate amount of time the engine takes and the rattling proceeds across the cloudless blue sky!
This so unnerved me last summer I was afraid to go outside for fear of the old codger and his beloved clap trap falling out of the sky on top of yours truly, that I thought for sure I was brewing an ulcer. I think me behaviour mimicking impending doom had a lot to do with the wee ones playing outside and when the sound of the rattle trap would suddenly happen, they'd shout to each other to seek shelter and run. I think that be me fault me kiddos are paranoid about the great outdoors in the summertime. Sigh.
So here we are starting summer number three and just today being a quiet Sunday morning, I took meself out on the side deck to sip me joe, enjoy the delicious breeze and begin a sunny day. That is until the morning peace was shattered by you guessed it, the flying geezer and his rattle trap flying machine. Even the hummingbird that was sucking up the nectar from some red geraniums took off at a remarkable speed to get out of the way of falling flying machine should that be case. After seeing that, I was thinking I should get the hell inside but then I thought, if the ancient flyer hits me deck he hits me house and if I be inside, well what are the chances I survive? I know this sounds like the rantings of a crazy person, but truly if you haven't witnessed this bizarre phenomena you can't commiserate with me in any honesty can you?
You will have to take me word for it this is not the way for Gabriel to spend his Sunday mornings, or any morning, day or night living in fear of a plane dropping on his abode. Someone (I don't remember who) assured me there be a second engine starter so the old fool isn't likely to drop out of the sky (anytime soon?). Well, ha ha lets hope.
Here are a couple of shots of this morning's fly by with cut engine. For some reason he must have known I would write this story so instead of flying low (as he usually does) he flew higher to make it almost impossible to get a good photo.
|Can you not just hear the noise, then nothing?|
|As he circles get lower and lower and drifting, drifting, drifting . . .|
When his mother came home the first thing she saw was the mummy and that was not funny in her book, no she was not pleased with me. She unwrapped me handiwork to see an inch cut that did not require stitches, and had been dressed. So there Tonya! Then she turned around at the prompting of Mr. Tell On Everyone, O'Hare pointing at the wee one sporting his new look. Well, lets say she lost it be an understatement.
"What happened to you? What happened to those beautiful blond locks?" She was down on her knees running her fingers through what wasn't there anymore. She was not happy and O'Hares tattling didn't help. She got the full brunt of the broomstick on the trampoline ("And where were you Gabe when THAT was going on?") and then how I thought it funny to dress Guido up like the mummy, ("Really Gabe, what a waste of bandage.") and finally because I was busy being a mummy-maker I allowed, yes ALLOWED the wee one to self inflict damage to his golden locks. OK!
So today I be in the doghouse over me "misguided sense of humour" and in particular not watching the little one so he'd not look like a punk rocker now. Yes, she took the clippers to the rest of his head to even it all off and he screamed bloody murder but she did it.
|Yeah acting like nothings different|
|End result - all those curls his mother loved -- GONE!|
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