Summers of old

I don't recall if my grandfather ever got to ride in an airplane, but I do know he had one dream that went unfulfilled -- to ride in a blimp.

Back in the simpler summers of the 70s, the arrival of the blimp was a big deal. I can still picture that subtle yet distinctive hum wending its way through the back alleys of our brains until suddenly it reached our consciousness and caused us to sprint out to the middle of the driveway to see who would spot it first.

There was something magical yet elusive in it's power -- it's ability to make everyone stop so completely and point up. Almost as if it was daring us to understand how it was so impossibly airborne as it floated across the sky. And even in our stunned amazement, we found the capacity to wave at the unseen people overhead, while we imagined who was lucky enough to be chosen for the thrill of floating through the air in the tiny cabin underneath.

For days after, we kept our ears and eyes attuned to the sky, wordlessly willing it to return.  But it never came twice in a summer. And as time passed, we gradually forgot, and moved on to other playtime activities and distractions until that next July, when with sudden and unexpected command, the magic would materialize once again in the sky over our heads.

I still wait for it every summer.