STOLEN PLANE
In the 1960’s I wandered the neighborhood of my southern city with curiosity. I wasn’t alone. The ghosts of the World War I Camp Green tagged along. We were in their turf. Youth not ready for the trenches trained there. The flu of 1917 took many before they could see the trenches of France. I scoured their terrain. We lived among the ruins and the ghosts trying to make new lives. Our own fathers from World War II were trying to bury their own pain and ghosts. Our block was full of those men and their pain. Their stories never told. But sometimes you could know the stories through a stolen plane. Our playground was the street. We played rolly bat while dodging cars parked on the street. And a trailer with plane parts. We took no notice. Things appeared. First a fuselage. Then wings. Other parts we couldn’t name. Never questioning. Until one day a man in a suit showed up. Hey “you kids, he asked, have you ever seen a plane over here?” “Oh yeah, we replied, Bud has a plane over there in the woods. He is building a plane. See he works for the Air National Guard. He has a plane.” It all seemed natural to us. Not to the man in the suit. The plane disappeared with all its parts and so did Bud. For a long time. Wonder what pain he saw in WWII? Maybe he just wanted a plane to help that pain. Made sense to my 8 year old mind and I kind of think he might have deserved that plane. I still do. Musings of a westside girl.
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