The Man In The Flying Machine AND Someone Gives Himself A Haircut!

25  June 2017
Story #869

R. Linda:

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 peculiar need to cut his engine, and thus, my little village (if you can even call it that) has a precarious claim to fame (of sorts).

I have lived here three summers, and the first time I heard the low-flying craft, as it rattled the ice in my 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 the cut-off engine until me second summer.

The one thing I love about where I live is the peace and tranquillity, which takes quiet to another level. All one hears is the birds or the wind in the pines, and that's it. 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; my slight annoyance at being interrupted in me hammock ended the first time I was aware that the engine of the old rattletrap cut off! I tell ya, for a minute there, and from somewhere in the back of my 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 is that old dude? Is he just above me and about to drop on me out of the sky? It sets one's heart 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 my 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 that I was afraid to go outside for fear of the old codger and his beloved claptrap falling out of the sky on top of me, which made me think I was brewing an ulcer. I think my behaviour, mimicking impending doom, had a lot to do with the wee ones playing outside. When the sound of the rattletrap would suddenly happen, they'd shout to each other to seek shelter and run. I think that's my fault; the kids are paranoid about the great outdoors in the summertime. Sigh.

So here we are, starting summer number three. Just today, on a quiet Sunday morning, I took meself out on the side deck to sip me cup of joe, enjoy the delicious breeze, and start a sunny day. That is, until the morning peace was shattered by, you guessed it, the flying geezer and his rattletrap 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 a falling flying machine, should that be the case. After seeing that, I thought I should get inside, but then I thought, if the ancient flyer hits my deck, it hits me house, and if I'm inside, well, what are the chances I'll survive? I know this sounds like the rantings of a crazy person, but truly, if you haven't witnessed this bizarre phenomenon, 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, let's hope, haha.

Here are a couple of shots of this morning's fly-over with the 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, making it almost impossible to get a good photo.

Can you not just hear the noise, then nothing?

He circles lower and lower and drifting, drifting, drifting . . . 

And motor ON!

But hey, we aren't quite finished. To add to my morning excitement, the youngest did me a bad turn last night. Yes, indeed, it was a bit of a messed-up pudding of a time. The ladies, including Sean, decided to attend a library book and art illustration show. I was tasked with minding the three kiddos. Easy peasy, NOT! The eldest got his nose out of joint and was complaining that Guido was jumping on the trampoline with a broom. OK. And the next thing, Guido is inside crying. He hit his head while jumping on the trampoline with a broom handle. OK. So, while I was listening to O'Hare berate his brother for foolishness on the trampoline with a broom and dabbing hydrogen peroxide on the cut on Guido's head, I was unaware of the youngest's whereabouts. OK. Well, after settling the dispute of why we don't jump on the trampoline with a broom, I bandaged Guido's head overabundantly to scare his mother when she got home (I know I shouldn't have, but I was out of me mind with three boyos). I had just got Guido looking like the mummy when down came the wee one looking rather odd. At first, I couldn't put my finger on what made him look different, but O'Hare instantly saw it and said nothing, laughed and pointed at his little brother's head. Then I saw it - the lad had taken scissors to his hair. His excuse was, "I wuz hot, sos I did a lil' cut." I'll say he did, but more than a little. He chopped the golden locks at the front of his head to the root! OK!

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 my 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, let's say she lost it; that would be an understatement.

"What happened to you? What happened to those beautiful blond locks?" She was kneeling, running her fingers through what wasn't there anymore. She was not happy, and O'Hare's 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'll be in the doghouse over me "misguided sense of humour" and, in particular, not watching the little one so he wouldn't look like a punk rocker. 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 nothing is different

End result - all those curls his mother loved  -- GONE!

My morning was somewhat shattered by the new look me wee one be sporting after his do-it-yourself haircut, and me angst was added twofold by the ancient dude and his rickety flying machine turning motor on and off and on and off. I will see that shaved head in me dreams and hear that damn plane as well. As I mentioned earlier, Gabe needs a vacation, preferably somewhere without children and things with engines that can be turned on and off, and which could fall on Gabe's head.

Gabe
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