I knew when I arrived at Elmira from my night's rounds that last Tuesday would be special. The forecast was for a warm sunny day with calm winds, and the dawning sky seemed to agree. I had airplanes on my mind as I laid down for my morning nap.

Several hours later the distinctive buzzing of an airplane engine cut through my sleep, directly to the center of my consciousness. I can lay in my bed and identify several airplanes just by their unique noise. I can tell a plane that is just passing through, one that is on a training flight, and one that is pausing to say a hello. Its no different than a farmer knowing his cows, just a lot easier.

This particular plane was built in a basement in near-by Tyrone, and is powered with an engine that spent its first incarnation under the hood of a Subaru. Car engines have smaller pistons and run at a higher RPM than aircraft engines, so the exhaust noise is more of a humm than the rumble of a traditional aircraft engine. It was a sunny morning and my ears told me that Larry was out flying; I called his wife to find out his plans.

Larry was going to Cortland for a quick hello, and then he was going to be at Waterloo for lunch with the "boys", most of whom are long- retired. Tuesdays at Waterloo is a regular destination, but not in the winter because the grass runway is too unpredictable. Hearing that Waterloo's runway was open was almost as thrilling as hearing the first peepers or robin's song.

I haven't flown anyplace but circles in my plane since New Years day. It was a pleasure to climb up and putt along while watching the scenery and anticipating the company of kindred souls at the diner. It is a sort of support group for people who are addicted to airplanes, and I had been months without their assistance.

There were only four of us who tiptoed on and off of Waterloo's soft runway Tuesday, two Larrys who are retired and two pilots who have regular night flights. It was a small group compared to the dozen and more that gather in the summer, but the important thing was that we were marking the start of a brand new season.

The plane had sat facing the south while we ate, and the interior had warmed enough that it was filled with the dubious aroma of cheap naugahyde in the sun. Just like daffodils and dandelions, the scent was sweetened by its message of the coming spring and summer. I sat for a moment and basked in the aura while I watched the other planes start up and taxi away. I pretended that the grass was a little greener and that there were splashes of color in the distant fence row.

I dawdled all the way home; even if I hurried, I wouldn't get anything important done before work. I had toyed with some low clouds on the way up, but they were gone now. I circled Seneca lake for a while, watching a large flock of snow geese as they flew low over the water. There were hundreds of birds, but they seemed to move in one body. I gazed at the hills, lakes and the clouds as I drifted along. I looked in the distances and saw the mountains of western Pennsylvania, the shores of lake Ontario and four of our finger lakes.

Winter isn't entirely gone, but the longer days and stronger sun have taken control of the weather. There will be more storms, but their effects will be short- lived. The frost is out of the ground, and the breezes of March are pulling the excess moisture from it. With each day bringing a dryer runway and a later sunset, the little grass airports... the fun airports... are coming back to life.

Tuesday was indeed special. It was opening day of flying's summer season.