Somewhere Between Wichita and The Twilight Zone.
Forty-six years ago, on a late October evening, I landed at a little airstrip surrounded by tall cornfields, and greeted by creatures in the moonlight.
I was seventeen, tired, and reasonably certain I was hallucinating.
Earlier that day, I boarded a commercial flight from Fort Lauderdale, FL to Wichita, KS, to pick up a brand-new Cessna 152, turn around, and deliver it back to Fort Lauderdale.
I was making my way southeast in that little two-seater, wearing a brown leather jacket, scarf, an old WWII leather helmet, and goggles. In my mind, I was some weathered old war pilot. In reality, I was just a kid doing about 120 miles an hour in what any old war pilot would consider a kite... looking for somewhere to sleep.
A bright moon was rising and below me, cornfields seemed to stretch forever. When an airfield appeared along my route, I decided it was enough flying for one day.
There was no control tower. I landed and taxied toward a small fixed-base operation, (aka FBO). One other airplane sat near the fuel pumps. Otherwise, the place looked deserted.
Then the figures began appearing.
Wild-looking figures. One was casually waving me toward a place to park, as though directing exhausted teenage pilots through a gathering of creatures on the tarmac was perfectly normal.
It took me a moment.
It was late October... Halloween.
There was a costume party going on inside, and with my leather helmet and goggles, I apparently looked like someone they were expecting.
The FBO folks were amused to learn that my costume was simply what I wore to fly across the country. I explained that I had stopped for fuel and some rest. My accommodations for the night were going to be the snug Cessna.
But they had a better suggestion.
Soon I was eating their food, enjoying their company, and being offered an oversized leather couch on which to pass out. Above the couch hung a painting of a Spitfire by Barrie A. F. Clark.
The next morning, I filled the tanks, thanked my hosts, and put my helmet and goggles back on. As I prepared to leave, I noticed a tube tucked behind the passenger seat.
Inside was a print of that Spitfire painting, rolled up with a note wishing me well.
They had already given me supper and a place to sleep. In addition, they gave me that special gift as well without saying a word about it.
A full belly. Friendly company. A new airplane waiting outside. The most comfortable couch in the world. And my favorite aviation print. I was in hog heaven.
I've never returned to that little airstrip. I couldn't tell you where it is or who the folks were that welcomed me like a long lost family member.
The painting came home with me that day. I had it framed and, years later, gave it to my son, Jon, when he was a boy. He's twenty-eight now, and it still hangs on his wall in Dallas.
Eventually, I bought another print for myself. It hangs on a wall in our place in Olympic Valley.
Every time I look at it, I remember that night.
It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone: a young pilot, an unfamiliar airfield, and strange figures emerging under a Halloween moon.
But what stays with me is the kindness and compassion I found when I landed on that remote airfield.
In Walking Distance, a man returns to the town of his childhood, hoping to recover something time has carried away. His father helps him understand that happiness still awaits him in the life he has now.
I understand the longing to go back. I'd love another evening with the folks in that FBO. I'd love to thank them again. I'd flip to fly 50 feet over the Mississippi River one more time, my elbow out the window, wind screaming in the cockpit... not a care in the world, other than scanning the terrain below for an airfield to gas up and take a nap.
But I also wonder who might need from me the same spirit of hospitality I received from my friends at the little FBO.
I can't return to that October. But I can still carry its kindness and compassion forward.
A full belly. Friendly company. An airplane waiting outside. The most comfortable couch in the world. And a parting gift.
I was in hog heaven.
"... A man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he'll smile then, too, because he'll know that it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory, not too important really, some laughing ghosts that would cross a man's mind - that are a part of... The Twilight Zone." ~ Rod Serling
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All photographs by Michael Kennedy (unless otherwise noted) / BlueWolfGallery.com
I’m Michael Kennedy, a resident of Olympic Valley, CA (in photo above with Nicola and Boo). I’m a writer and photographer and I love exploring nature and getting lost along the way. We live in a world that demands our attention and I just want to say thank you for your attention. If you enjoyed this post, please share this with a friend. For more photos and stories visit BlueWolfGallery.com.
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