My Writer's Cramp Pieces

The Hot Air Balloon

A birthday balloon ride was supposed to be a fun day, but then everything went wrong.



Writer' Cramp: hot air balloon, Holstein cows, frantic parents.

A Hot Air Balloon Ride

         My husband, George, always talked about wanting to soar into the sky in a hot air balloon, so finally, on his fifty-ninth birthday, I bought him a ticket. You should have seen him when he opened up that envelope. Fifty years fell away with one peek. I saw the little boy who he used to be, and I smiled because that’s exactly what the best presents in the world are supposed to bring back.

         Of course, George couldn’t wait for the day. He debated what to wear with me, and I with my best wifely attitude pretended an interest, but I praised his choices and ironed his dark blue shirt that he’d selected.

         George hardly ate a bite of the blueberry muffins I’d baked when Saturday arrived. He bolted down his coffee and rose when it was still too early to leave. I set down my cup and without a word, I followed him out to the car.

         It was a beautiful day for a ride into the country. The grass was its greenest, the flowers of spring were singing in colors, and the sheep had lambed, so babies were staring at us with wide-eyed startlement. George started singing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning. Oh, what a beautiful day. . . ,” and I sighed with happiness, scooting down into the leather seat, feeling fuzzy from the warmth of his delight.

         The balloon was filling up as we arrived at its launch site. Its top part was a children’s fantasy of red and blue patterned diamonds. The basket on the bottom was shiny with new lacquer. Everything reminded me of the cover of Around the World in 80 Days.

         My husband was not the only one with a ticket. A couple of young teenaged boys had been given a present for graduating from eighth grade. They were accompanied by their girl friends and two sets of parents looking worried and nervous about the whole thing.

         “Can we get in yet?” the boys kept asking. The girls were a little more subdued. One of them went over to her parents and clung a bit.

         I smiled and kissed George goodbye. Eagerly he climbed in, the first to enter. He threw another kiss at me and then turned to inspect the cords holding the balloon to the ground.

         Young Kevin, as I soon discovered he was called, kept asking the balloon man questions. “How fast will it go? How high? When will it be ready to depart? How will we get down once we’re up there?”

         The clinging girl started to cry and her friend stayed with her. The boys were hardly bothered. They shrugged off the girls’ unwillingness and climbed into the balloon with Kevin. Then the lines were cast, George waved, and the little basket with four brave souls began its climb.

         A herd of Holsteins lifted up their heads over in the pasture beyond us and mooed their nervousness, but as the balloon continued upward and away from their meadow, they lowered their heads and continued their breakfast.

         I yawned and thought about my morning coffee. I wished I’d brought a thermos. I climbed back into the car and tried to take a nap. The car was stuffy with the window up, so I rolled it down. Unfortunately then I had to listen to Kevin’s parents.

         “No, it was your idea. I said he was too young for something like this.”

         “That isn’t Kevin leaning over the side, is it?” the woman cried out.

         Of course, I had to look. The woman needed glasses. It was my George taking pictures of the ground. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the voices.

         The girls and the other set of parents had left already. I’d watched them drive away. They’d said they were headed for a pancake restaurant. I decided to ask George to stop for brunch on our way home. It would be a pleasant conclusion for the morning’s outing.

         I must have drifted off. The voices of the parents had risen in pitch to a worrisome screech. I opened my eyes and watched as the balloon ran into a large oak tree, wedging and ripping its balloon tarp.

         I bolted out of the car as if I could do something. My mouth dropped open and the scream I was just about to let loose mysteriously came out of the mother standing nearby. I turned to look at her, so startled by the unexpectedness of the noise, my own scream died. I slammed my mouth shut and reached into my purse to pull out the phone. Quickly my finger punched 911.

         “The hot air balloon just landed in a tree. We need help,” I said.

         The emergency operator made me repeat that three times before she finally understood the problem. She said she’d send a fire engine to render assistance. I ran then and climbed over the fence that was between the Holsteins and our car. Barbed wire ripped at my pants, but I ignored the sound of cloth tearing and the deep scratch suddenly stinging my hand.

         “Are you all right?” I screamed up at them.

         George answered back. “Dan has had a heart attack. Call 911.”

         “I already called,” I told him. “Who is Dan?”

         But no sooner had I said it than I knew. Of course, it was the balloon man. Yet he was young, no older than my George. My heart thudded, and I alerted 911 to the new situation.

         The parents had followed me over, climbing the fence behind me. When they reached my side, the woman stood beside me, wringing her hands and crying softly. Her husband checked that I had phoned for help, and then corralled her with his arm, calling out to his sons.

         Within an hour, George and the others were down. Dan was rushed to the hospital, and all was back to normal, but somehow it wasn’t. The boys were now clinging to their parents. I was holding onto George, and we were all talking and had become strangely bonded through the emergency. Betty and I exchanged phone numbers, George and Dick set up a golfing game, and the boys became linked to us, offering to cut our lawn, to run errands, to help with chores.

         We separated eventually, and all of us went to our homes, but our bond has remained. Betty and I have been visiting Dan almost everyday, and next Saturday the four of us will be going to the county fair. Dick and George keep talking about going up in the hot air balloon tethered there, but Betty and I just look at each other, and we roll our eyes and change the subject.

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