Sunday Fill on Thursday

Given that there's no 100 Word Challenge this week (Velvet is buried, what with the young man she owns trying to do his Superman imitation - and losing) I thought I would fill in with some 'Sunday Fill' - which may or may not become a semi-regular feature of this here blog space.

You may have noticed over the last few days, that I have a certain fascination with airplanes, and flying in general. I come by it honest, honest I do. When I was a little boy (yes, it's another one of THOSE stories), and I used to spend the summers at Aunt Louise's Resort in the country, Aunt Lou and Uncle Al had a partner in the place, 'Uncle' John. John J. had been a bomber pilot in the Second World War and his legs and back were full of shrapnel and he was always in a lot of pain. So he drank. A lot. Uncle John would sit in his chair next to the pop machine (the old fashioned kind that held bottles, not cans, and pop was a dime, where you lifted the lid and slid your selection down to the end of the rails that held it in suspension and up through the latch system, after you'd put your dime in) and drank Jack Daniels right. from. the. bottle. Two bottles a day. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. He walked with a cane, two canes on bad days. And he told us stories. We loved Uncle john. His drinking was never a 'problem', at least not as far as WE were concerned. He never seemed to get drunk. He would just go to sleep in his chair, the long, grey hairs on his chest rising and falling slowly, with each breath. And we knew to be quiet. As children we never knew how much pain he was in. And he never told us war stories. Just so you know.

Anyway, Uncle John owned a seaplane. And once in a great while, he would fly his plane in and land on the lake where the resort was and give us kids rides. On those rare 'good' days. Because Uncle John LOVED to fly and he loved us kids.

The very first time he flew his plane in that I was ever aware of, at least, and that I was going to be able to get a ride in his plane, happened to be the day that I discovered the can of Hershey's Syrup in the cupboard and drank it. I was SO SICK. Nobody knew why - all they knew was that I was throwing up like crazy. And I wasn't going to tell anybody what I'd done because by then, smart little bugger that I was, I'd figured out that that probably wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done and I would probably be in trouble if I fessed up. I mean, I'd thrown up all over everything on the sun porch and Aunt Lou was PISSED - but forgiving, at the same time, because she thought I was SICK. I knew, if SHE knew - so I didn't say anything and I watched as my sister and my cousins all got rides in Uncle John's seaplane and I stayed grounded - because I was 'too sick to fly'.

Everybody came back with big, shit eatin' grins on their faces. Very much like the one on my face after the glider ride last June. I was so, so, very disappointed. I wanted to go up in his plane so, so, much. THAT'S when I was first touched by the 'love to fly' bug. And it's been with me ever since. I was 6. I am now 62. And I STILL get excited and all giddy at the prospect of leaving the ground and taking to the air. Just like a kid. Which isn't a surprise. Because inside, I am that kid. It's just the outside that's gotten older.