“Louisville, back in 1947.”
Crash corrected, “Toledo, ’49.”
Bomber, Hooker, and Crash continued their incessant blather as they drifted away from the Sheriff’s car. While exasperating, this return to normal comforted Deb that everything was indeed alright.
Sheriff Carter’s radio squealed. He reached to his shoulder to speak into his portable radio mic. “Go ‘head, George,” he answered.
Everyone gathered could hear George confirm, “Found it, chief. Crashed over by the old stone quarry, ‘cross the Highland County line-”
Buzz butted in, “--Hurt anything?”
“Any damage, George?” the Sheriff relayed.
“Nope. Went down in a ball of flames in a hay field. Got a few cows running loose, but nothin’ serious over here.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Buzz exhaled, “Whew.”
“Call Sheriff Brown in Highland County. Get him on it. Roger out,” as Sheriff Carter signed off.
Deb put an arm around Buzz’s waist as they entered the cafe. “Ya want some coffee?” she asked.
“Something stronger might settle the nerves better. Let’s break out the private stash.”
The Liar Flyers followed in formation, as though each had an assigned position.
Crash said, “Summer of ’47.”
Bomber followed with, “1946, it was fall.”
Hooker offered a third opinion, “1948, spring.”
The never-ending drivel settled nothing.
☁ ☁ ☁
Trip dangled in the old oak tree. Sunset painted a crimson sky. A crow on a nearby branch cawed. “Gonna starve to death. Hope you’re not hungry. Get outta here. Help. Anybody?”
Sunset, Trip was suspended, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It would make a great postcard if the parachute harness weren’t beginning to chaff and burn.
☁ ☁ ☁
Sheriff Carter, Deb, and Buzz sat at a table in the cafe. The Sheriff was knee-deep in forms, having concluded his crash investigation. This being his first airplane crash report, the Sheriff jerry-rigged forms designed for reporting of automobile accidents. Someday they might share a good laugh about some of the boxes he checked and answers to questions like: Which vehicle had the right of way? If a tow truck was required, how long was traffic blocked? Today was not the day to see much humor in the situation.
Buzz mopped his brow. The bottle of scotch on the table was draining fast. Buzz poured another round for Deb and offered a slug to the Sheriff. Sheriff Carter held up his hand, demurred as if ‘on duty.’
Deb, her hand resting on Buzz’s arm asked, “Have ya seen Trip?”
A bit puzzled by her timing, Buzz said, “Nope, been a bit busy. Destroyin’ a jump plane’s a full-time job.” He downed an inch of scotch in a single gulp, tabling the glass triumphantly.
“Hmmm, strange,” Deb pondered.
“He’s probably mopin’ ‘round somewhere. After I read him the riot act this morning.”
Not overly concerned, Deb said, “Nothin’ to worry ‘bout, he always shows up.”
Sheriff Carter scooted his chair back from the table, satisfied that he had checked all of the boxes. Even the dumb ones. Sliding the clipboard to Buzz for his review and signature, he announced, “All done. That should do it.” He slid his glass in front of Deb. She hoisted the bottle, and the Sheriff nodded, “Off duty, now.”
Deb poured the Sheriff a short inch of scotch. As she pulled the bottle back, he touched the neck of the bottle and coaxed a more generous portion. Deb readily complied. The exhausted Sheriff raised his glass in a salute and said, “Off duty, all night.”
Three friends settled in to make history of the remaining scotch. It had been a long day.
☁ ☁ ☁
Trip’s long day wasn’t over. He evaluated his options. He had options earlier and had picked poorly. Had he crawled into the main cabin while Buzz was still taxiing on the tarmac, he would have been dumped off the plane. Buzz would have fired him, but he wouldn’t be hanging twenty feet above the ground in the pitch of night in the
Crash corrected, “Toledo, ’49.”
Bomber, Hooker, and Crash continued their incessant blather as they drifted away from the Sheriff’s car. While exasperating, this return to normal comforted Deb that everything was indeed alright.
Sheriff Carter’s radio squealed. He reached to his shoulder to speak into his portable radio mic. “Go ‘head, George,” he answered.
Everyone gathered could hear George confirm, “Found it, chief. Crashed over by the old stone quarry, ‘cross the Highland County line-”
Buzz butted in, “--Hurt anything?”
“Any damage, George?” the Sheriff relayed.
“Nope. Went down in a ball of flames in a hay field. Got a few cows running loose, but nothin’ serious over here.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Buzz exhaled, “Whew.”
“Call Sheriff Brown in Highland County. Get him on it. Roger out,” as Sheriff Carter signed off.
Deb put an arm around Buzz’s waist as they entered the cafe. “Ya want some coffee?” she asked.
“Something stronger might settle the nerves better. Let’s break out the private stash.”
The Liar Flyers followed in formation, as though each had an assigned position.
Crash said, “Summer of ’47.”
Bomber followed with, “1946, it was fall.”
Hooker offered a third opinion, “1948, spring.”
The never-ending drivel settled nothing.
☁ ☁ ☁
Trip dangled in the old oak tree. Sunset painted a crimson sky. A crow on a nearby branch cawed. “Gonna starve to death. Hope you’re not hungry. Get outta here. Help. Anybody?”
Sunset, Trip was suspended, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It would make a great postcard if the parachute harness weren’t beginning to chaff and burn.
☁ ☁ ☁
Sheriff Carter, Deb, and Buzz sat at a table in the cafe. The Sheriff was knee-deep in forms, having concluded his crash investigation. This being his first airplane crash report, the Sheriff jerry-rigged forms designed for reporting of automobile accidents. Someday they might share a good laugh about some of the boxes he checked and answers to questions like: Which vehicle had the right of way? If a tow truck was required, how long was traffic blocked? Today was not the day to see much humor in the situation.
Buzz mopped his brow. The bottle of scotch on the table was draining fast. Buzz poured another round for Deb and offered a slug to the Sheriff. Sheriff Carter held up his hand, demurred as if ‘on duty.’
Deb, her hand resting on Buzz’s arm asked, “Have ya seen Trip?”
A bit puzzled by her timing, Buzz said, “Nope, been a bit busy. Destroyin’ a jump plane’s a full-time job.” He downed an inch of scotch in a single gulp, tabling the glass triumphantly.
“Hmmm, strange,” Deb pondered.
“He’s probably mopin’ ‘round somewhere. After I read him the riot act this morning.”
Not overly concerned, Deb said, “Nothin’ to worry ‘bout, he always shows up.”
Sheriff Carter scooted his chair back from the table, satisfied that he had checked all of the boxes. Even the dumb ones. Sliding the clipboard to Buzz for his review and signature, he announced, “All done. That should do it.” He slid his glass in front of Deb. She hoisted the bottle, and the Sheriff nodded, “Off duty, now.”
Deb poured the Sheriff a short inch of scotch. As she pulled the bottle back, he touched the neck of the bottle and coaxed a more generous portion. Deb readily complied. The exhausted Sheriff raised his glass in a salute and said, “Off duty, all night.”
Three friends settled in to make history of the remaining scotch. It had been a long day.
☁ ☁ ☁
Trip’s long day wasn’t over. He evaluated his options. He had options earlier and had picked poorly. Had he crawled into the main cabin while Buzz was still taxiing on the tarmac, he would have been dumped off the plane. Buzz would have fired him, but he wouldn’t be hanging twenty feet above the ground in the pitch of night in the
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