I’m not much of a flier.
And by “not much of a flier,” I mean whenever there’s the slightest bump on the plane, I start saying the Rosary and sobbing to my wife how much she has meant to me. Once we leave the runway it gets even worse. I’m just one of those people who doesn’t believe man was meant to leave the ground. To be honest, I’m not even sure about trampolines.
So the fact that the air show was in town this weekend completely slipped my mind.
At least until the fly-bys started around 7:45 a.m.
My wife and I are both early risers, so we had just settled in for a quiet morning on the patio. Just us, a lazy stretch of sun, our coffees… and a WWII fighter plane screaming over the house. For the next hour it sounded like we were under attack by a deranged fighter pilot. Possibly “chasing his father’s ghost” in an effort to be better than his old man. In the cockpit, he called upon another ghost — that of his wingman.
“Talk to me Goose.”
Don’t do it, Mav.
I suddenly realized my morning had turned into Top Gun…