Monday, March 16, 2009

Author of Father of the Man Dr. Peter L Colman

As we dipped to the runway, I strained to see a tall, solitary pine with a small makeshift perch made of scrap boards in the up-most branches. My cousin aîné, Jimmy Dickey (my Aunt Shirley’s son), and I used to climb that pine behemoth just to sit and watch the distant runway.

Just then, the small unsteady platform seemed to lurch. I grabbed a thin board and the nearest dry branch and held on for dear life. The soft screech of tires and the rush of afterburners interrupted my reverie. I shot one last desperate look toward the darkened hill. The luminous red, broken glare of the beacon, comforted by the soft complexion of the aging tree line and juxtaposed against the crisp white winter night, seemed like the amiable nod of recognition from a childhood friend after a lifetime of separation.

“Uncle Jim, I’m here. Can you pick me up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here in Manchester, Jim.”

“Already? Good. Stay put. I’ll be there in seven minutes. Wait for me outside the far right entrance. You know the place. I’ll drive around and pick you up. That way, I won’t have to pay for parking. Be there, or the police will make me drive all the way around again. You know the routine. I don’t know why, they just don’t let us pick somebody up without having to make us move.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jim.”

“Good. Glad you had a safe trip. I’ll be right there.”





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