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I
have never flown on an airplane before, and besides climbing an
especially high tree in my backyard as a child, I’ve never been one
to take to the air.
Central Illinois has always been my home, with its flat fields of
corn and open sky. I’ve visited cities but rarely seen the world
from any height. A few days ago, I was buried nose-deep in notes for
my personal prose and essays. Now I was standing in a hotel parking
lot, staring at wicker baskets strapped to trucks as though they
were too impatient to leave the ground. I was about to fly in a hot
air balloon.
The morning briefing promised perfect weather. “It’s going to be
perfect,” the weatherman Mike Albano said, as a small crowd gathered
around him. Soon, our crew was loaded into the van: my mom, my
coworker Stephanie, Mayor Tracy Welch, balloonist Lonney Jeanes, and
our pilot, Scott Wooge (pronounced “woah-gee,” he told me). It was
me and my mom in the back, with mom recovering from going from work,
to babysitting my niece and nephew, to this new adventure. We rode
out to a field behind the Dugan Center, once a preschool, later a
dojo—now transformed into a runway.
Trucks lined the field as we unrolled 105,000 cubic feet of fabric,
a swirl of color stretching so far I feared it would never end.
Then, it was business.
Video, photo, video, photo.
I skirted around baskets, crouching low for shots, until my mom’s
voice called me over.
The balloon still lay on its side, the fabric gaping open like the
doors of a church. The inside was no different-–light filtered
through the patchwork of colors and decorated my mom’s face.
Standing there she looked small in the space of the balloon—younger,
and more excited than me.
After stepping outside the roar of the fire continued until the
balloon sat upright. I took in a breath and climbed into the basket.
The ground crew darted around, with the mayor holding the tether to
us. Our balloon pulled, again impatient to leave. Then, we were set
free.
Lincoln stretched beneath us like a
model town, as my mom pointed out, streets crossing through fields
and houses shrinking to dollhouse size. I spotted the courthouse
dome, the fairgrounds, the parking lots I would recover in after my
shifts as a waiter. My mom gripped the edge of the basket, smiling
wide with adventure. I hadn’t seen her with a fire like this in what
felt like ages. Her blonde hair matched her glowing face.
As we drifted higher, I felt myself relax. My mom talked to the
others while I stared through my camera. Then, I looked at the real
thing. The city looked peaceful, slowed down, as though it had given
me permission to stop rushing.
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Our descent was just as gentle. The
basket tilted, with a soft thump back down to dirt. One by one,
Stephanie and my mom left the basket until only Scott and I
remained. Thus came the end of the peace when the balloon tipped on
its side. I held on, and rolled out from the basket after it settled
Then Scott gathered us and became a storyteller. He told of Pilâtre
de Rozier, who first left the ground in a balloon in 1783. Peasants
thought they had come from outer space and nearly attacked them,
until the men produced champagne as a gift of goodwill. The story
made our little ride feel even more unreal—connected to centuries of
wonder, fire, and fabric.
Later, we packed up and piled into the van. My mom sat in the back
seat between Mayor Welch and his wife. I was able to sit near the
mayor and asked what drew him to ballooning. “I started helping
seven years ago... I liked it,” he said simply. This year, he told
me, he finally bought his first balloon and has his training
license.
As the van carried us back through town, I thought about the lesson
tucked in Scott’s story—the peasants who could not imagine the sky,
and the way my mom and I often cannot lift our eyes from our work.
For a time, we weren’t weighed down by different responsibilities…we
were lighter than air.
[Sophia Larimore]
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