Very long ago, though perhaps not that far away, when I was a little girl, I remember standing with my mother in the backyard of the house on North Sagamore Road and waving to a small plane flying overhead, a plane I knew my father was flying. It was quite a thrill, and it happened many times. He sold planes and owned and operated a flying school at Cleveland Hopkins Airport. I have documentation that his school was in business in 1931, though I am not sure of anything before that. During WWII he taught flying as a Lieutenant Commander with the Naval Air Force, at Glendale Base near Chicago.
He died when I was in kindergarten, in January of 1951, and it’s now 2010.
But this afternoon I was outside in our yard on Ranchwood Road waving wildly to a Piper Warrior flying overhead in the soft blue sky. (They couldn’t really see me, alas!) It was piloted by my son Andy’s good friend Sedensky Istvan, to say his name in the Hungarian way, or Steve Sedensky, otherwise. Andy was the only other person in the plane……..They circled around several times, and also flew to the eastern end of Bath and flew over my daughter Alice’s home several times and she and my grandson waved with enthusiasm. It was a happy moment, and I think we all enjoyed it. But I am left in one of those states in which one tries and fails to grasp the meaning of time.
Time passes, but at times will not pass one by, instead it will carry one along – to time past.
And meanings get strengthened once again.
Very touching to read of how you felt, looking up at the plane.