Tale of Two Brains

Mystery solved. Hallelujah!

Hot Air ... and where to find it.

Every year, on or near the autumnal equinox, the City of Plano has its Balloon festival. A combination of ballooning meet and local fair, it is a kaleidoscope of color, ethnicities, volunteers, and gastronomic indulgences. It is preceded by intense volunteer committee work, manned by good citizens devoted to frenetic planning and grand spectacle, supported by a city management accustomed to a lower level of dedication to same.

This time of year is best for ballooning. The winds of spring and summer have given way to the light airs of early autumn, and are most suitable for balloon flight. This is, I’m told, that to keep ballooning safe, you really want to stay away from windy days. Getting the huge envelope filled with hot air is impossible to do when you have to brace yourself to windward, and the birds fly backwards. Should one actually achieve flight, your support team has to cross counties and states to recover your, and the balloon’s, remains. Baskets recovered from rough landings – misshapen, crushed, shredded, or vestigial - have been known to have the distinctive tang of unbridled fear. Rain as with most sports, is also not considered good for a balloon meet.

Unlike in the past few years, this morning must have been near perfect and even we tyros knew that the dawn patrol would fly. To be sure it did, and we had a grandstand view of the colorful bags taking to the air. Our complex is next door to the fields from which they leave.
The long(er)distance fliers left first, leaving the field for those that sell “balloon rides”.

The latter take trippers for a short round trip for a couple of hundred dollars. They stay close to the ground and somehow making use of local low level air currents to take off and land again in a few minutes and the same city.

I could see who was who in the command module – the white knuckles on the wicker basket rim as the balloon scraped the roof tops were a dead give away. The elephantine flatus of the gas-burner told of the equanimity of the others.

Daisy

Sunny side up daisy.

Meanwhile, on the ground and outside the grounds, the city’s only contribution, traffic management, was woeful and inept. At 0900, when all the good little Southern Baptists were still singing “All things bright and Bushieful”, and the streets were just a tad over empty, the first imprecations and curses, were clearly audible. The city, taking the line of least effort, simply closed off major streets without due notification to residents, and failed to position any (let alone clear) detour signposts. The shortcomings of its Finest in basic traffic management, promise to add excitement to the day’s events.

Um ... well, y'see, it was like this ...

I committed to write two paragraphs; at least two, I promised. So bright and early I fired up Old Betsy, my PC, and contemplated its unblinking screen full of hope. After a few minutes (well, ten or thirty or so) I suddenly remembered an errand I had to run, and that my dohgs (English dogs) needed to be drained. Then there were the groceries, of course. So close to noon, um ... one really, I again sat myself down to write. The screen still did not blink, nor had it done so, not even once in the intervening time. Inspiration likewise did not emit a solitary spark.

So I checked my spam, once more drained the dohgs, and found a number of urgent insignificant chores that needed doing. In between each, I visited Betsy, and her malevolent stares. Still nothing. In the background the radio kept me updated on the key events around the world. The planet, it seems, has suspended any existence except Indecision 2008.

Lunch (a radish salad, some wieners, and fresh strawberries) failed to encourage a single electron to cross its synapse.

Despite my ministrations the flat looks lived-in, the odd-jobs endless, the dohgs capable of unlimited ordure - and the blogger blank.

So I probably won't come up with a credible excuse to Mart either. Oh well, maybe a nap, eh?

Move over dohgs.

First Day

In lieu of stringing words together to form actual sentences, which may or may not represent complete thoughts, I thought I'd just show off a few pictures of the fruits of my labors.

Taken hastily on the first day of school, with less than cooperate models and a shitty photographer, it is still, nonetheless, amazing to me.

Three kids. One school.

Almost seven hours of silence.

First, my big kid. He gave me the most grief about the first day of school. Somewhere along the line he caught wind of the fact that this was a short summer vacation. A full week short. So he begged me to do what the school district refused to do...extend his vacation. He has since settled in nicely with his fourth grade class. While he does not have any close friends with him this year, he seems to fit in with the boys in his class and I'm hearing the names of new friends daily. Phew!

My Maggie May. My sweet little thing. She hardly said a word all morning on the first day. I asked her if she was nervous and she bravely told me no, she was excited. She squeezed me the hardest as the bus rounded the corner, but never looked back. Of the three, she is the most eager to share her day with me...tells me all about who got in trouble and who she sat with at lunch. She is proving to me every day that I had nothing to worry about. She's just fine. She's a big girl now.

Libby. Libby, Libby, Libby. She talked almost non-stop from the moment her eyes opened. She was dressed, her teeth were brushed and she was examining the contents of her backpack (again) before my feet even touched the carpet. Not once did she wonder about what first grade was going to be like...she TOLD me what it was going to be like. She has it all figured out, and she doesn't miss a trick. She begged, pleaded and sobbed to get her hair cut yesterday, and after I finally gave in and took her, she admitted that she just wanted her name on the "Hair Cut" chart. She is something else!

This last one was taken only moments before the bus arrived...and then they all disappeared. There were no tears...from them or me, but I'll admit that they didn't leave my mind for a second and I counted the minutes until they got off the bus. I needed to know that they were okay, that they had survived the day without me and that they felt comfortable in their classrooms.

It was a long, hard day for me.

BUT...you'll be happy to know that my new favorite time of day is 8:39am, Monday to Friday.

Buh-bye! See you in seven hours!