Spud and Moochy arrive Saturday for a visit. It reminded me of an unfinished blog piece from about six months ago. That was in the middle of the longest time we had ever gone without seeing each other. I found the piece and here it is:
The four Rolls Royce engines on the Virgin Airbus A340 decrease in pitch and the plane noticeably slows. Beneath the wings the blue waters of Lake Michigan give way to the flat grid of the north suburbs; a buzz of excitement passes through the cabin as the aircraft banks right to start it’s loop into the airport.
Two thousand feet below, on the back-step of a rented suburban family house, sits a solitary man enjoying the contrast between the warm early May sun on his face with the cool glass of the French doors on his back. He is strumming ‘Kingston Town’ on an old worn guitar. It is not unusual to find him there while the daily Virgin Airbus from London turns over St Charles and follows the broad line of Lake Street into O’Hare.
By the time the airliner gets to him it’s so low it feels as if he can see straight into its oval windows. He fancies again, as so often before, that he can see the big green eyes, round with anticipation, of a small boy's face. That face pressed against the aircraft’s Plexiglas. The guitar quiets in his hands as his soul seems to leave him and fly alongside the aircraft.
All too soon the plane passes and lands moments later. Off stream hopeful business men, excited tourists and home-comers; the latter anxiously scanning the crowded terminal for a familiar face. A squeal, a hug, maybe some tears and flowers. Then they pour form the building in a cloud of excited chatter and heavy cases and fall into the waiting cars; they are back among their own.
Two miles north, on the suburban back-step in the early May sunshine, the solitary man goes back to strumming Kingston Town. Quietly he sings “If I had the whole world I would give it away just to see the boys at play …”
The four Rolls Royce engines on the Virgin Airbus A340 decrease in pitch and the plane noticeably slows. Beneath the wings the blue waters of Lake Michigan give way to the flat grid of the north suburbs; a buzz of excitement passes through the cabin as the aircraft banks right to start it’s loop into the airport.
Two thousand feet below, on the back-step of a rented suburban family house, sits a solitary man enjoying the contrast between the warm early May sun on his face with the cool glass of the French doors on his back. He is strumming ‘Kingston Town’ on an old worn guitar. It is not unusual to find him there while the daily Virgin Airbus from London turns over St Charles and follows the broad line of Lake Street into O’Hare.
By the time the airliner gets to him it’s so low it feels as if he can see straight into its oval windows. He fancies again, as so often before, that he can see the big green eyes, round with anticipation, of a small boy's face. That face pressed against the aircraft’s Plexiglas. The guitar quiets in his hands as his soul seems to leave him and fly alongside the aircraft.
All too soon the plane passes and lands moments later. Off stream hopeful business men, excited tourists and home-comers; the latter anxiously scanning the crowded terminal for a familiar face. A squeal, a hug, maybe some tears and flowers. Then they pour form the building in a cloud of excited chatter and heavy cases and fall into the waiting cars; they are back among their own.
Two miles north, on the suburban back-step in the early May sunshine, the solitary man goes back to strumming Kingston Town. Quietly he sings “If I had the whole world I would give it away just to see the boys at play …”
In case you re unfamiliar with the song:
