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ICARUS
Writing is like traveling: we get pleasure out of taking ourselves for the ride. But with writing, there are no frequent flyer miles. These pages capture the heartburn and the high of the wanderlust; enjoy the trip. And on the second time around, with care, pass; it is hard to abandon the familiar.
ICARUS
THE CADET JOURNAL OF THE ARTS
VOL.:XXX
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH USAF ACADEMY
COLORADO
1995
ii
EDITORS
Kevin A. Keene Andrew J. Taylor
ADVISORS
Capt Andrew A. Boehman Capt Pamela J. Chadick
JUDGES
Maj Susan Ross Capt Susanne S. Burgess
Capt Gregory L. Bonafede Capt Petra M. Gallert
Rachel Woodward
ICARUS 1995 iii
Table of Contents
Cullen Award Recipients . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v
ICARUS Cadet Creative Writing Award Recipients . . . . . . . vi
Fiction
Dan Boyd Prom .......................................... 1
James Myers The Rose of Ruby Valley ............................ 13
Joseph Woyte The Long Way Home .. . .. . ......... ... . .. ... . ..... 31
Poetry
Anthony Haynes Goddess ........................................ 5
Mike Engel Sea~Side Friendship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Derick Steed My Comrade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Andrea Houk Circle (A Poem for Dan) ............................ 11
Christian Russell Pinballs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Sarah Williams Secrets to be Told . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Joseph Clancy Do You Still Think? .............................. .. 25
Scott Devenish The Visit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7
iv ICARUS
Michelle Carns Ilaves al Espiritu ... . ... ............... .. ... .... ... 28
Paul Ferguson Those Damn Brownies .. . . ................ .. .... . .. 3 7
Artwork
Cover and Title Page, Justin Joffrion
Christo, Scratchboard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Scratchboard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Ink Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Andrea Houk, Charcoal Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Eric Zihmer, Scratchboard ................. . .. .. . .. . . ... 10 Crayon Drawing ... .... . . . ... . .. . . . ..... . .. 12
Sean Hoetlieher, Ink Drawing . ......... . . .. . . . .. . ... ... 20
Jereme Barrett, Scratchboards .. .. .. . ... ... ..... . ..... .. . 24 Drawing . .... . . ... ........ ..... ... ..... 26
Chris Wirtanen, Pencil Drawing . . ... .... . ... . ... ........ 30 Pencil Drawing ............. . . . . ... . .... 36
1995
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
BRIGADIER GENERAL PAUL T. CULLEN AWARD
RECIPIENTS
v
James A. McClure
No Award
Lance Perdue
Peter Hearns Liotta
Kolin W. Lester
James C. Keener, Jr.
Gary M. Nogrady
Charles R. Melton
No Award
Michael Sullivan Lynch
Gregory A . Quandt
Lynn M. Steer
Lawrence Cooper
No Award
No Award
Scott Birkhead
Douglas A. Cunningham
Michael Ellis , USMA
Elizabeth Williams
The Cullen Award was renamed in 1992 to The Icarus Cadet Creative Writing Award
vi
1992
1993
1994
1995
ICARUS
ICARUS CADET CREATIVE WRITING AWARD
RECIPIENTS
Douglas A. Cunningham
Kurt M. Schendzielos
James W. Myers
James W. Myers
Prom
I'm still not sure what made me look up, but when I did I saw lights through the trees. Two square headlights at first, bobbing up and down as the vehicle sloshed over the pot holes. Then a third light, brighter than the others, flashed on and caught me almost dead in the face.
"Oh, God, a cop:' Now the light was right in my face as I broke off a delightfully sloppy kiss by shoving Brenda into the back of the front seat.
It was prom night and things had been going great. Brenda had looked incredible when I picked her up in my dad's new Oldsmobile. Even all the pictures her mom and grandmother had insisted on taking were bearable. She had smiled up at me, the flashbulbs making sparks in her eyes, her skin hot against the back of my hand while I pinned on her corsage.
I don't think either of us stopped smiling the whole evening, except maybe when I first opened the menu at dinner and saw the prices, but Dad had given me an extra twenty and Brenda sure looked pretty.
The dance was nice and everybody was there. There were lots of balloons and more pictures. We danced a few dances, mostly the slow ones, and talked with most of our close friends until around eleven-thirty when she whispered to me that her feet hurt.
"We could sit for a while if you want. I think I saw an open table over by-" I started to point toward the punch bowl when she gave me a little jab in the ribs. "What's the matter .... "
I looked at her. "Jamie, my feet are sore .... " She pouted for a second until the smile in her eyes spread to the rest of her face.
"Okay. Uhm, we could go, if you want .... " It was sprinkling a little outside but she ran to the car with me and
only giggled as I fumbled around trying to unlock the door. We drove to a little park between a couple of subdivisions that we'd been to before for picnics. Brenda always called it "Our spot" and I doubted anyone knew about it, except maybe a few kids who lived nearby and played basketball there when the court wasn't flooded.
2 ICARUS
I don't know how we ended up in the back seat. We usually just kissed and stuff in the front, but it was Prom and it seemed like a good idea.
"You've got goosebumps:' I noticed as I put an arm around her bare shoulders.
"Yeah ... :' I slipped my jacket off just as she leaned closer and we kissed. She didn't seem to care about the chill so I dropped the jacket over the back of the front seat.
"What?" She sat there staring at me as the police car turned toward us and switched on his red and blue overhead lights. "No, it can't be. It can't be!
"Brenda, it's a police car. It is. Oh jeeze ... :' "No. Oh no!" She slipped down onto the floor and tried to pull
her dress back up over her bare breasts. As the cop got out and shined a flashlight in the window, I sat there helpless.
I finally figured out that the power window switch was useless with the car off and opened the door.
"How are you folks this evening? Did you know the park is closed?"
"No sir:' My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "Yep. All city parks close at dusk. Can I see some ID please?" "Yes sir:' I searched through all the pockets of my rented tuxedo
and finally found my wallet inside the jacket thrown over the front seat. "Here it is:' I almost dropped my license before he could take it.
He looked it over for a minute, then shined his light on Brenda, the hem of her dress pulled up to her shoulders. "You doing all right , Miss?" I could hear the squawky voices from the radio on his hip.
"Yes Sir:' "Okay:' He handed back my driver's license. "Maybe you two
should take this somewhere a little more private:' "Yes Sir:' "Yes Sir. Thank you Sir:' Brenda was practically in tears, still
curled in her beautiful dress on the floor. Neither of us said anything as the police car backed away and we
hurried to reassemble ourselves.
1995
I drove Brenda home and walked her to the door. "I had a nice time:' She straightened my tie.
3
"Yeah. Me too:' I leaned forward and kissed her briefly, before her lips formed a smile and we both ended up laughing.
"Call me tomorrow, okay?" I nodded. "Good night?' "Good night, Jamie:' She still looked terrific. As I pulled out of the drive and onto the road, my hands still
shook a little, but by the time I got home they'd stopped.
Dan Boyd
4 ICARUS Goddess
Across the event horizons of ten thousand black holes, She waits,
Resplendent, Bold, Black as the heart of space Spirit of Woman Celestial Goddess
Alpha and Omega of this quiet, desperate plane And I-
I the humble son of beaten slavesDo want her.
O! To know the lips of paradise, and live Among gods, A mortal man star-blessed
To ride the flaming sail up, up to the stars! To build resplendent castles so gorgeous
She extols my work, And even dwells apace-And I-
I the humble son of beaten slavesDo want her.
To Explore! -more than all Who've sc:en the hazy edge of space
And leap the event horizon Where time and space slow down And reality falls apart
And there, In the firmament of Natures twilight
Find her-
And I-
Spirit of Woman Celestial Goddess Queen of Quasars Alpha and Omega of this desperate plane.
I the humble son of beaten slavesDo want her.
Anthony Haynes
6 ICARUS
~- :;-, <... .. .,
............. !' - $.
Sea-Side Friendship
He spends his days down on the shore. He is only eight. Yet he seems so much more. A jump into the endless waves, toes touch the tide. He collects the small shells as they roll onto the beach. The waves lap the sand endlessly. The waves golden in the sunlight grab at him-asking him to playand merrily, the boy accepts the invitation for friendship. He knows the sea like a brother and loves it more. And the warm water washes the boy innocent of everything. And the boy rejoices in the cool feel of intimacy he shares with Neptune. He is eight & the water, ageless-but the bond of the boy and the beach can never be broken for love knows no time, except that together.
Mike Engel
8 ICARUS
My Comrades
I want to live in the sky, To touch the clouds and the sun, The place where my comrades died And fought for the freedom of everyone. I want to live in the clouds And touch the brewing rains Where jets and rockets thundered loud And Men fulfilled their dreams. I want to live near the sun And feel his warm embrace, To touch the souls of comrades fallen And once again see their faces.
Oh to live in the sky! With my comrades who have died.
Derick N. Steed
10 ICARUS
Circle (A poem for Dan)
Round and round we go dancing around the
like bees near flowers Maybe he and me loves himand
me Maybe we'll get in not around Maybe
someday Maybe
truth
not.
Andrea Houk
12 ICARUS
The Rose of Ruby Valley
There is a rose that stands in the midst of the salt and sand of Nevada's desert foothills. She is my great aunt and my sister, my pride and my shame, for I, too, am a child of the Ruby Valley. My father's blood came from these jagged fingers of mountains which were cut by the wind to become beautiful. My grandfather's soft blue eyes and laughing gait were formed in these rocks long before I was even a thought in this ancient and pleasant earth. And his sister, the Rose, calls to me from her tomb in the sand, whispering to me stories of how different she was-and how alike we are. I dream of her petals, and I know that they fall in the only place that I can rightfully call "home:'
The sagebrush and the grass flow with a total lack of consideration for rhythm as I climb to the top of the hill to look over this valley which once held acres of land that would be owned by the Johanson family. I see endless acres of shrubbery that are cut only by the willows and softwood trees that cling to the stream as their only flow of life. The shades of green tend to yellow as I let my gaze swing slowly from the stream to the flat grassland, where there are mule deer and antelope grazing together.
I look toward my feet and see a blank headstone that is almost pushed to its side, staring up into my eyes with total emptiness. The stone begins to swirl with marble-like veins and the blankness molds itself into a hard, featureless face; I know that it is going to tell me something very important. I must listen to its patient words. It's eyes stare through me as the mouth moves to enunciate the sound that is made by the wind itself.
"Chuck, you awake yet?" my grandfather's voice pierces the wind. The stone fades slowly into a dull shade of gray that covers the entire plain, then turns to darkness before my eyes open.
"Is it time to get up already? What time is it?" It is so hard to move, so hard to lose the image of whatever it was that the dream was telling me.
I hear a familiar and annoyingly joyful chuckle as he replies, "We have to get going if we want to start work before noon. Hell, the
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sun'll be down before we know it once we get out there. The day's a lot longer when the work still needs to be done:'
So I've heard, only about a hundred times already. "All right, I'll be up as soon as I get these overalls on:' The overalls take well over five minutes as I take time to remember. The smell of the basement and stale pipe smoke takes me for a moment into my childhood, where my heart aches as I see my grandmother dancing to old Neil Diamond songs not five feet from where the fold-out bed sits, just to try to get a rise out of an eight year old boy. I fight the image from my mind as I laugh at the blue canvas loafers that my grandpa provided as "work shoes" the night before, and then I make my way up into the kitchen, where I know there will be milk, eggs, sausage, and the laughter of an old man.
The trip takes only three hours across the morning desert, punctuated by an actual traffic jam in the Nevadan outback, caused by a hazardous chemical truck overturning on the only road to the Ruby Valley. The valley is a place, as I am told, where four generations of Johansons rest, on the land that was theirs until Albert sold the whole lot in small tracts to over sixteen different families. My namesake is there, and that is why Grandpa has waited until now to make the trip to rejuvenate the gravesites of our ancestors. But I am a child, and I pay little attention to the three-hour history lesson on the road; there are more important things to worry about in a teenager's mind. I will someday crave the knowledge that my grandfather throws into the empty air in the cab of his pickup, but I only hear the fragments which are strong enough to invade my imagination.
The desert shows me the gradual rise of the valley into the foothills below the large granite faces of the Ruby Mountains. From fifteen miles, the full and flat grandeur of the valley is sharply punctuated by the guardian hills and the towers of stone. My mind walks on top of the words from the driver's seat: "everything that you can see right now used to be the Johanson Ranch. This is where I grew up-right over there, see that new house up there on the hill to the left? No, that other one. Well, that used to be the corral, and our house was right underneath it. I used to take hours sometimes riding out to check the fences, hoping that I would see a rabbit or a deer. I
1995 15
had my .22 with me always on my horse, and I was always on that horse. Like I was born on the damned thing ... :'
We are greeted by a tall aluminum arch that boldly but clumsily states: "Ruby Valley Cemetery:' The letters are worn by the wind, and some are incomplete or apparently rewelded every two or three years. Tall grasses and weeds grow mostly between, but sometimes on top of, the mounds of earth that hold empty shells of people who, while still alive, were perhaps once awakened by their grandparents to make long trips in the hot sun. My grandfather enters another of his stories, and he drifts in and out of characters I have already met earlier in another of the day's tales. The stories begin to become a pleasant release from the desert sun as we begin to cover my great grandparents with the lava rocks from the bed of the pickup.
Just above their stones is the single, lonely man named Charles William Johanson, whom I meet through a story of a man who died while tending to members of the community who had become infected with the influenza virus. The picture in my mind is of a strong man, dark from many days of fighting with the rancher's sun. He has a hefty build and a lariat in his hand as he sits atop a sterling Appaloosa, yelling in cowboy language to the cattle before he goes to the hospital to argue with God about the fates of his dying friends. Charles William Johanson lost the fight, eventually. So will I. I shudder and return to the newest tale in the weaving as I hammer the wooden frame into place around a plot with my name on it;
The story ends with my father's father motioning toward the pickup with his shovel, "Well, do you think it's time for lunch yet?"
"Sure, as long as there is something to drink in there:' And I am thirsty. Thirsty for more portraits of who I am, or will be-or am. Thirsty for life to stop long enough so that I could meet these people. Thirsty to know what it was that the gravestone up on the hill was going to say. I had seen my namesake and my great grandparents, but my grandpa had avoided going up the hill. I have to get up there.
" .... and she said that I should just throw that damned thing away, but it's still down in the basement, just the same as the day I fished it out of Ralph Sorenson's garbage pile. Hahaha:': know that this place
16 ICARUS
affects you, too, Grandpa. I can see it in your face as you talk about your wife. She is with all of these people, yet she does not have a stone here. Your blue eyes shake as they laugh at memory and what can never be again. He turns to me with eyes that are tired from fighting tears and says, "Well, I'm going to have myself a little nap:'
My heart skips a beat as I watch him climb into the driver's side of the '65 Ford three-quarter-ton pickup. This is my chance! I need to go find out what that stupid thing was telling me last night. I need to know. I need to learn. I watch little spurts of coffee flow out of the silver thermos cap in his hand as he slowly drifts out of the Ruby Valley. His disjointed snores allow me to move freely from his side to the base of the hill. The hill is a slow climb until the last two feet, which are a straight ridge of loose dirt that will make climbing a challenge.
The climb is almost treacherous in the heat, yet the smell of the sage in the wind beckons me to the top, where I already know that I will be able to see many miles of the valley below. Even before I reach the top, I see the stone, leaning unnaturally, as if it had stopped moving only when it heard my approach. The gravestone is unclear until I pull myself up over the small ridge and am able to look down into the dirt. The words strike me as being beautiful and natural, as if destiny has been fulfilled: Rose Johanson 1867-1867 .
As I follow the last date into the dirt and push away the Indian paintbrush that covers the last date, I notice that a small animal has chosen to crawl down into an unusually shallow grave, and into Rose's arms. I let out a yell and almost fall backward as I actually meet Rose Johanson, face to face . Her eye sockets stare out at me and mock my fear with their steadiness and their darkness. After the fear, there is a strange curiosity that prompts me to lean closer to her, as if I need to feel her breath upon my face. The summer wind of the desert blows a chill into my cheeks as my eyes adjust to the blackness inside of this hole. The skull begins to form slowly around the eye sockets as I continue to stare.
I am surprised by what I see, yet I continue to lean toward her face in the darkness. Rose is, as somebody probably once said, "not quite right:' The face is larger than the proportion of the neck- and shoulder-bones would suggest. Her cheekbones are distorted into a strange twist on one side that makes the skull seem as if it is always
1995 17
smiling. In fact, any flesh that once grew upon that face would have been a part of that smile. It was the dark and inevitable smile that I had seen on the stone in my dream, before it had begun to tell me its secret. This is important. Remember. And calm down.
My face begins to burn with incredible shame as Rose's smile turns to an embarrassed scowl; I realize now that I have been gawking at her form for over ten minutes, studying the deformity which surely had killed her before she had begun to live. I leap from the ridge into the soft sand below, which avalanches so that my feet disappear in the dirt and I slide to the base of the hill. My legs carry me quickly toward the pickup, where I know there will be a shovel that I can use to let my great aunt return to her peace. I have to return her to a place that does not have any room for the foolish and clumsy reactions of stupid children. I do not even look to see whether or not my grandfather is still asleep, but I run back toward my Rose in the sand, feeling a passionate desire to cover up that face: my shame.
The covering is quick work, and I find three large stones to prop the headstone back in its proper place and to discourage the animals from returning to their underworld. I sit to the right of the headstone when the job is finished I find myself crying salty teardrops onto the sand and the rock. Uncontrollable sobs reach into the wind from the back of my throat as I apologize to my dead family for who I am. I hear footsteps from behind turn toward me as I sit still, facing the valley that I have betrayed.
"She died before I was born. My parents really didn't have that much:' my grandfather went on as if he hadn't noticed my shame and my tears, though I knew he had, "so they couldn't take care of her. She didn't die from her face, you know. My parents had to just
let her go:' "What do you mean, 'let her go?' You mean they didn't get doctors
to help?" "No. I mean that they just let her go. No food or water for a few
days until it was over:' the coldness of the voice sent shudders down my spine as the warmth of anger moved out from my lungs to echo
across the hills. "What?!!" The tears didn't matter anymore, and they flowed past
my cheeks as I stared into those shaky eyes. For the first time in my
18 ICARUS
life, my grandfather looked away from me and simply said, "That's just the way it was done. Come on down. We still have things to do here. I am glad that you fixed it; this is the third time that raccoon has unearthed her, . and I have even considered relocating her to a deeper grave:'
"Grandpa, I can't just get back to work. This is terrible. How in the hell could anybody ... .I mean .... Jesus Christ, Grandpa, what kind of people were these?"
"They were just like you and me, just different. That's just the way it was done back then. They had to do it because they didn't have any way of helping her:' His head rises so that he looks at me again. "Did I ever tell you about the time you and your cousin got stuck in that old tree in the front yard? The thing of it was. . . :' My grandfather goes on with the story as if nothing had happened. I know that no other questions will be answered today. lknow that he doesn't have the answers. What I need is buried and lifeless below about five hundred pounds of lava rocks. Is that what you brought me here to tell me? You sons-ofbitches!
At one point in another story, I interrupted with, "What would you have done, if you had been the father?" He then stopped the tale long enough to look up at me. The stare was deep and tired and insulted. He fought for words that would not come and let a single tear drift down his wrinkled chin onto the blue denim of his overalls. I would not ask again. I should have known.
Seven stories and two hours later it was time to le~ve. The truck grumbled through the gearshift. Massaging his strong shoulders, my grandfather looked very much like my image of Charles William Johanson on his beautiful white horse as he turned to me and just said, "I don't know:' I was very tired after all that happened that day. I nodded to Charles that I understood right before I closed my eyes for the return trip.
I look into the willows that reach their roots into the stream by the arch and see a small child hiding from me. There are giggles all around me and I can see a beautiful smile on her face as she peers through the branches. I know that it is her; she runs now as an
1995 19
eight-year-old because I have returned her life in my memory. I say to her, "I know who you are:'
She answers with the same, "And I know who you are:' She speaks in giggles that fall into the wind. She steps out of her branches to let a baby raccoon scurry out of her arms as it sees me approach her keeper. More giggles. "You and I are not so different, you know, Chuck. You smile like me:'
I smile at her, then, and I run with her to the top of the hill, where there are no gravestones. There are only children, and I am invited into their ranks with thousands of small arms. We cheer as the sun rises to touch the beautiful cliffs high above our heads with its rosy fingers that make the entire rock face shine like a ruby. And in the middle of the valley there stands a single rose that we all reach toward as I awaken.
It is time to go to work. I find great joy as I yell, "Lois Rose are you awake yet?" "Oh, Grandpa, is it time to get up already?" It is time to meet the children of the Ruby Valley. It is almost time
for me to die. I can hear the echo of the voices in my dream as they ask me, "What would you do, if you were the father?"
James W Meyers
20 ICARUS
pinballs bo unce
inside my head all those things i should have said all those things i should have done every chance i should have won RIN(RING)GIN(ING)G bells FlAsHiNg LiGhTs kill concentration in a fight for mastery clouding mind crowding sea
.. pinballs-
soaking brain with memory of fe( the man i should have shown you)ar
Christian E. Russell
Secrets To Be Told
We spin webs of confusion that we make ourselves and then we go and get stuck in them.
Like spiders we wrap up our secrets and watch them carefully, to make sure they don't escape.
If only we could communicatelet someone know, but we can't.
We lock them up and throw away the key; not to hurt others or ourselves.
They stay in, growing, until one day, they grow strong enough to come out, to crawl out to leave our bodies and our minds and they attack us.
spin webs of confusion that we make ourselves and then we go and get stuck in them.
Sarah Williams
24 ICARUS Do You Still Think
Do you still think moments like these soar through time, though their shadowsbeneath the blue skywhisper of days past for many moons?
Joseph Thomas Clancy III
Llaves al Espiritu
Muchas veces He mirado en tus ojos Y queria estar En tus piensas. Pero tu no me mirabas Asi. Para mi, Tus ojos mudaban Una ventana A tu corazon, Y pude ver el amo que tenias.
Un dia tu alma me llamo.
Decimos nada. Pero supimos que Algopaso. Y finalmente tuve la Have, Para entrar en la puerta de su mente.
Many times I have looked in your eyes And wanted to be In your thoughts. But you did not see me The same way. For me, Your eyes made A window To your heart, And I could see the love you had.
One day your soul called me.
We said nothing But we knew that
1995
Something had happened. And finally I had the key, To enter into the door of your mind.
Michelle C. Cams
29
30 ICARUS
The Long Way Home
Hovering and bumping a few thousand feet above the ground, in the presence of sixteen others including pilot and copilot, I awoke. My eyes instantly focused through the blur of the Beechcraft 1900C's left turboprop blades at the scenery below. I ask myself silently, "Where am I?" I honestly didn't know. I had boarded the plane at about 2:30 p.m., but the scenery was about as familiar to me as an ice cube is to an aborigine. It wasn't the shapes of the farms below, or the infinite horizon created by our height, or even the way the roads and streams cut straight and snaking lines to and fro. I'd flown more than enough times to be used to the sizes of cars and houses, like toys so far below.
It was the color of it all that confused me. All was one color, which I might call "beige" if I had any inclination to be tactful. "Beige'' was not the first word that came to mind, though, nor was it the most correct. "Baby shit brown'' was how my father used to refer to just such a shade. When he said that phrase I would always smile, not merely in affirmation, but mostly out of love for his straightforwardness. I' wouldn't experience the joy of diaper changing until the age of eighteen, when I baby-sat a one year old for some friends, taking to the task with held breath. Although he had been dead for five years, I could almost hear Dad's voice, saying, "Yep. Baby shit brown, all right:'
So there I was, flying over a state whose color I could describe perfectly, but whose name I didn't know. I was wondering how God, in all his business on the third day of creation, forgot to put trees and lakes and hills on this state. The pilot came on at that point to tell us that we would be landing in Grand Island in a few minutes. "Grand Island, Nebraska;' I said to myself.
Grand Island airport had me laughing inwardly and smiling openly. Ours was the only airplane in sight. Most of us went inside to use the facilities . To get back to the plane, we had to pass through a security check and then wait in the "passenger terminal" until the plane had been refueled and the garage door was opened. That's right; the "passenger terminal" was a garage. I wasn't about to hold my laughter in any longer, and some of the others joined me.
As we flew toward Sioux City, Iowa, and then on to Waterloo, Iowa, the scenery below began to change. Instead of mud puddles, ponds and
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lakes moved slowly under us. A patch of spring green was followed by another, and later the ground became a huge quilt of different shades, although there were still few trees to be found. The streams with their eroded, sand-colored banks, became real rivers with greenery at their banks. The horizons started to become hazy, and I had to turn on an overhead light to read and write.
Haze and dusk would not bring an end to this journey, though. It was only 5:30, or 6:30 if we had passed into Central Standard time already, and the plane had yet to stop in Waterloo before finishing in Chicago. From there, I was to take a shuttle taxi to the Amtrak station and a train to downtown Milwaukee, where my best friend would pick me up. I could hardly wait to see my mom's face when I arrived, because she thought I was staying in Colorado for spring break.
"See the country;' I thought to myself, remembering how I had chosen this extended trip over the usual nonstop Denver to Milwaukee flight. My initial objective was to get home as inexpensively as possible, so I told the travel agent that, and her enthusiastic reply was "If you're not in a hurry, we can put you on a series of express flights that stop a few times in the Midwest?' The idea of seeing new things has always appealed to me, so I said, "See the country! Perfect:' She probably thought I was crazy, but I knew that sometimes you're better off taking the long way home.
The closer we came to Waterloo, the more beautiful the scene became. The ground was a dark grey, and the sky was a great rainbow. The spectrum started with red from the sun, now just out of view, at the very edge of the dark grey land to the west. The red faded within a millimeter above the ground to citrus orange that tapered next to glowing gold. The yellows then changed into a spectacular lighted emerald, only a few centimeters above the horizon to the rear of the plane. The remainder of the kaleidoscopic dome of sky consisted of every shade of blue that ever existed in all the oceans and babies' wide eyes.
The plane turned northward on its descent to~d the airstrip, putting the reds, yellows, greens, and light blues around the left wing and the darker blues, majestic purples, and growing blackness around the right. The city lights of Waterloo began to rise up from the flat ground into three dimensions, all around us, as we fell toward the
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ground and touched down. Taking a last glance at the sunset before going into the airport lounge, I realized that only a few months earlier I had been told by an Air Force doctor that I was partially colorblind, and could never pilot a military plane. "Must be all in my imagination;' I thought, with a grin.
Takeoff was as exciting as the latest landing, with the golden sparkling lights of the city quickly changing back again from three to two dimensions as we climbed into the moonless night. I smiled with the joy of taking to the air: a joy that is probably just as strong today as it was the very first time I .was lifted from the ground in an airplane. I broke my fixation on the night sky to peer at the faces of my fellow passengers. "What's wrong with you people;' I wanted to cry out when I saw that they didn't share my enthusiasm. Half had their eyes closed, trying to get to sleep, and the other half read with stiff, uninterested faces the magazines and trashy drugstore novels that they had picked up in airport gift shops. I decided not to let it bother me and looked again to the left wing.
I thought when I saw the fuzzy circle of spinning propeller blades at the leading edge that the wing looked a little bit like that of a WWII North American P-38 Lightning. I daydreamed for a few minutes of Messerschmitts and 38s, dogfighting high above Europe. Those were glory days, when a pilot could see his enemy face to face and duel him with the courage of a knight, skill of a chess master, and speed of a peregrine.
It wasn't long before the dark ground speckled here and there with yellow lights nearly became a yellow light speckled with dark ground. The increase in the amount of light on the ground told us long before the captain would that we were approaching O'Hare.
As soon as I was in the arrival gates, I began looking for terminals one, through three, where, I had been told, the shuttle services were. As I got to terminal one, I noticed that there was a subway station in the airport, and a light bulb came on in my head. I could justify yet another youthful adventure by saying that it was a cost saver.
"Does this train go to the Amtrak station;' I asked the man through the glass.
"Get off at Clinton;' he answered, which I took as a "yes:' All I knew, a few minutes later, was that I had paid a buck and a half
