Convalescent Magic

On the way home every night I drive by an airplane museum. It’s sort of like a convalescent home for aircraft. No one thinks you’ll ever have the ability to fly like you did when you were young, but you can play checkers and talk about your glory days. A quiet and serene quiet place to rust in peace. People come to visit you once a year just to check in. They reminisce, take pictures with you, but they're mainly there to be in awe of the fact that you’re still in one piece. The main attention is on the air for the new planes and the few old timers still able to take off.

“Hey Henry” one bellows, “You remember when we used to do that?”

“No John I don’t,” he sighs, “My flight recorder was removed years ago."

I’m not a plane buff by any means and honestly cannot tell you model number, cruising speed, or year commissioned. Maybe reading Brian’s posts has showed me how little I know about planes, because when I drive by, all I see is big one, fast one, old one.

To me some things are just magic. I mean I have head knowledge of how a plane takes off. I understand the passage of air over a curved wing and how that coupled with thrust can give a plane lift. It makes sense in my head. Seeing it on paper is different than watching a plane take off. I just have to think, that’s magic, there’s no other way to explain it. I’m always in awe of the fact that we can leave the ground and land in reasonable safety. Seeing these old planes also makes me realize we have been doing magic for quite a while now.

The old planes, some covered with tarps or wood to keep elements at bay, rest on the lawn never moving never changing. They get to sit and watch the new planes that land and take off at the airport over the chain link.

Planes that rattle your chest, or make you wish you were heading out somewhere on a trip. Sitting in a tight seat, barreling down the runway thinking about your voyage and waiting for the cart. Nothing says vacation like a daisy cup of ginger ale and five salty peanuts.