PlaneDream
By Lauran Paine Artwork by Jim Newman
I had a dream the other night. It was about an airplane. It was spring and I lived on a farm of wheat fields. The wheat was young and rippled various hues of green in the light breezes. Nestled in the fields was a strip of grass about three thou sand feet long and fifty feet wide. The grass was short and the ground was firm. At one end of the strip was a barn like building with big, wooden front doors. It wasn't new by any means, but it appeared to be solid. I walked up to it and pushed open one of the doors. Inside, on the clean concrete floor, sat a Stearman. It was white with red trim. It sat on its tail, pert and proud. Its windshields were clear and clean. Its tires were black with plenty of tread. There was not one drop of oil on the floor under the en gine. This was a machine of magnificence; a sight to behold. I walked around it and talked to it, wiggled the parts that wiggled and felt the strength of the parts that didn't. I opened the other door of the building and pushed the Stearman out into the sunshine. The shadows that were on the fuselage gave way and revealed a gleaming white gem of aviation beauty. There are a few things, however, 10 MARCH 2000
that you need to know about this airplane. It didn't have any registra tion numbers on it. None. Not anywhere. Didn't even have a regis tration certificate or airworthiness thing. In my dream I knew I owned the airplane and I knew it was sound, so I figured I didn't need some agency to give me official pieces of paper to tell me what I already knew. It didn't have any logbooks either; the thing had never been an nualed. Never. Ever. But it was solid as a rock. And, of course, it had no radio. Or altimeter. Or insurance. None of this detracted though. This baby was merely pure ... and free. Its name was Plane. Plane was not without rules. It had three: 1) stay healthy, 2) share the beauty of flight with as many as possible, and 3) be polite and happy. I got in Plane and sat. Just sat, ab sorbing the feel. Stick, throttle and pedals felt good right where they were. So comfortable, this dream. I started the engine. It started right up settling into a smooth idle. The propeller played gently with the air. I nudged the throttle and Plane moved toward the end of the grass strip. As we, Plane and I, lined up, I added the rest of the throttle and Plane began rolling down the strip in earnest, feeling for solid air beneath
its wings. The wings reached har mony with the air and Plane was at home ... aloft and carefree, feeling joy. The air was smooth, not a ripple to be felt. The scenery below matched the feeling aloft, the farms and farm lands reflecting the good hearts and hard work of those who tended them. Over the next rise is Willie Munson ' s place. He has Hereford cattle, umber cows with white faces dotting the landscape. Off to the right is Tom Martin's dairy, with black and white cows grouped in pastures. Willie and Tom always wave if they're out. They're good friends, the do-anything-for-ya kind. They like Plane. Plane has shown them their farms from the air many times. Their cows even like Plane, occasionally looking up while con tinuing to chew whatever it is they chew. Plane is a friend to all. Well, everybody 'cept 01' F.A. Haye, over in Burrcrat County. Plane bothers him. F.A. is one of those kind of people who sorta likes to mind everybody else's business. He's not a bad sort, really; just has a bit of a rough time understanding freedom of spirit. Most people around these parts don't pay him much mind, just sort of let him talk on and then go about their business of doing what's