A seat on the plane

 

B-17G Flying Fortress Sentimental Journey

B-17s were heavy bomber aircraft. Over 8000 G models were built, and some were converted to other uses besides 'bombing'. But most were bombers with 13 'guns'. 

B-17s are HUGE aircraft. Massive. Five gunners 'man' the guns, and five other crew members are aboard. A gunner sits in a little bulb located underneath the aircraft. Another sits in a "bulb" at the tail. One above sits in a bulb above, and two more at the sides/at the 'waist'. 

On one single Thursday during World War II, the aircraft took a beating. 77 B-17s were shot down, destroyed, crashed. 680 airmen aboard those B-17 were killed. 

Randall Jarrell, U.S. Poet Laureate (1956-58), imagined the day all too well. He wrote a poem titled "The Death of a Ball Turret Gunner". 

Jarrell sees the belly gunner/ball turret gunner in ways we can't imagine.

"I hunched in its belly..."

Jarrell envisioned the gunner facing 

"black flak and the nightmare fighters".

And then the most sickening imagery: 

"When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose."

NO! I scream. NO. 

And I add one more PLOTUS to my spreadsheet. 

Sometimes I am sorry I do.

Changing of the guard - er, birds.

 Seasons change, and so do the birds at our feeder. 

 This guy needs a lesson on his manners. 

DON'T eat the tube that feeds ya!

 The birds are molting. They actually look furry!

 And what appears to be our first goldfinch. 

They 'winter' here, so I wonder what this guy is doing here so early. Maybe the economy affects their travel choices, too?

Being an astonaut

My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

In New York City for a conference

on weed control, leaving the hotel

in a cluster of horticulturalists,

he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,

narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,

holds the door for the Asian woman

in a miniskirt and thigh high

white leather boots. She nods

slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture.. 

 

(- by Christopher Chambers , as profiled by

Ted Kooser, US Poet Laureate 2004-2006

American Life in Poetry: Column 88 )

 

Are you ever surprised how a poem can stick in your thoughts? Not in a sad wistful way, nor in a sing-song golightly way. But in a "what was that again?" questioning way. 

Just like brushing up against a famous person, a truly famous person... you can't quite grasp it again, but the poem sticks in your memories. My brother and I once ran into the John Glenn, the astronaut. I don't know if he was a senator yet or not - but he certainly was a famous astronaut. Illya and I had decided to spend a hot sticky afternoon riding the elevators in an upscale hotel. Up and down we rode, greeting people at each floor as they entered the spacious elevator. Illya would play 'conductor', pushing the floor buttons for everyone on board. I stood behind all the passengers, not noticable but noticing. It was delightful way to spend our time. Then John Glenn boarded. THE JOHN GLENN. Illya looked at me, I at him, our mouths gaping and weird noises coming out of our lips. I don't remember the rest... and I can't quite capture it again. 

Just like Dad holding the door for Yoko Ono - the moment is gone. Does it really need to be remembered? 

 

And thinking of astronauts... E. and I took Sophie the dog to a festival. Hundreds of people - and every kid asking to pet Sophie. Kids always ask "What is her name?". Their parents ask "What kind of dog is she?" We respond that she is a Gordon setter mix. "A what setter?" We are asked over and over. Gordon. Like in.... Like in Gordon Cooper, the astronaut!!! 

That answer doesn't work. "Oh, you mean like Jeffy Gordon?". Everyone knows Jeff Gordon, #24. Except me. I'm sticking to my astronauts.

September basking

"Happily we bask in this warm September sun,
Which illuminates all creatures..."
-  Henry David Thoreau  

All except Sophie. 

She wearily waits for me to finish mowing the lawn.

She waits for her chance to run

to play

... and to bask.

 Sigh...