Parachuters used to jump across the river from where I grew up. Still do, as a matter of fact. When we were out in the yard playing and heard a low-flying plane, we'd look up to see how many parachutes we could count, picking out which was our favorites. They filled the sky like confetti, colorful and tiny. It was hard to imagine that there was a real person tied to the end of each of those specks.
I remember being really nervous for each speck, thinking a slight breeze would blow them off course, landing them wrongly into the water or high in a tree, or on our roof. I must admit though, I really wanted one to land on our roof. I couldn't imagine anything more exciting.
We also listened to the sky for another sound back then. If we heard a helicopter, chances were it was my cousin. He was a helicopter pilot and whenever he was near our town, he'd circle down low and wave down to us. We'd yell into the house and my mother and father would run out to greet him, too. We never knew when it would happen and it was the most exciting thing that ever happened in our backyard. I loved how special I felt. Then quick as he buzzed down, he'd be off again.
I don't know why my mind went to these two facts about my childhood today. Nor why I felt compelled to share them with you. I still hear that airplane buzzing about and I can't help but search the sky for brilliant little specks.
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