Life is full of difficult decisions, and last Thursday I found myself deep in a quandary; Should I go flying, or should I stay home and work around the house. Hazy sunshine and a southerly breeze had brought the temperatures well into the sixties and made things quite pleasant on the ground, but I knew that flying would be less than perfect. With no specific destination, and the thought of a bumpy flight made longer by strong winds aloft, I almost stayed home.
Even after takeoff, after doing all the things necessary to commence flight, I still didn't know where I would go. I thought that Larry might be working at his hangar, so I headed northwest as I left Beaver Dams. I loitered over the Sugar Hill area, marveling at all the trails that used to be roads, and hedgerows that used to line fields. From time to time, old farmstead sites could be seen. Generations of families were born, lived, and died in those hills and hollows, but nature won the battle long ago.
As I continued toward Tyrone, bouncing along with the nose pointing left of course to counter the rightward wind drift, I suddenly thought "Dundee". I would fly to Dundee for lunch! It would be my first visit there as a guest, and it would be a fitting acknowledgment that Dundee has always been a pleasant place to be. I had to smile at the irony that for years I drove to Dundee to fly some place else, and now I had driven some place else to fly to Dundee.
As I rounded the two corners of the traffic pattern north of the airport, I thought of the thousands of times I had flown them during the ten years that I had instructed there. Rolling out after the landing, I took a quick census of whose plane was where, and noted that the Club plane was out flying. Instead of turning toward the hangar though, this time I taxied down the road that lays along the old west runway, my wing passing over the plastic sheathed hay bales. I turned left to follow the gravel pit boundary, and continued south in the alfalfa field until the woodchuck holes got too thick. I parked the plane there and walked catty- corner across the field to the railroad tracks, en route to town.
I have often enjoyed walking from my plane into a strange village, and just listening and observing as I moved along. As I walked past three pre- schoolers playing in their yard, raking leaves and chattering contentedly, I decided that Dundee would be an interesting subject.
It was an easy day to let the camera just roll, letting the images play out on an uncluttered screen. Robins clucked and even sung a few notes amidst a flock of starlings, and a Blue Jay swooped across a yard with his arrogant call and flashes of bright blue against the bare trees. It was easy to play pretend, and imagine that it was now one of those days in late February when we get a quick reassurance that spring will come, after just a few more weeks of winter.
I walked along Seneca Street, admiring the array of village homes, absorbed in an attempt to capture the essence of the architect's art. What features or lines make a home stand out as a classic, and how are several of these features blended into one building? There were many examples to be seen, but the rules themselves remain just out of my reach.
My eye was pleased to see that many of the big old houses were still complemented by their carriage houses. Nowadays they are garages, but originally they were home to the horses and usually some chickens and other livestock. As I walked, I pondered the times before cars, and before indoor plumbing. The classic village lot had a house, a small barn, a privy, and perhaps another accessory building as well. The buildings complemented each other in their style and placement, and their combined effect was greater than their sum. Finally, I wondered what sort of outcry would result if one of today's village lots was used as it was in 1901.
I took a seat at Norva's, ordered the special, and looked at the paper as the noontime trade walked in and out the door. There was always the nod of the head and usually people greeted each other on a first name basis. There is always comfort in familiarity, and small towns offer plenty of both.
On the way out of town, I stopped at the Observer to say hello and prove that I was still alive, despite the infrequent appearances of this column. I promised that winter brings more time for writing, and also seems to bring on the introspection that writing requires. Summer is a free and easy time, but winter requires elements of thought and planning, and bouts of unpleasant weather enhances our appreciation for the good things.
Walking back to the airport, reality started to encroach upon my reverie as I passed a house where a crew was spudding off an old roof in preparation for new shingles just in time for winter. It was a nice day and they were listening to vintage rock n' roll on a boom box, but they snapped me back to the present. With two roofs at home that are awaiting my attention, I knew my weekly lark was almost over.
We all have our favorite escapes, flying is mine. I started took off with no plan or destination, and didn't end up anyplace distant or unusual, but I attained a contentment that has lasted through the rest of the week. A bargain by any measure.