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    Nikos Tselepides New Member

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    (for Sher)

    Two in the afternoon, mid-October.
    I have taken the old aircraft and am flying
    over the Adirondacks valleys. Headed 75 degrees
    slightly north of east, with Mountain View Air Park
    and Plattsburg field ahead. How colorful
    this country is this time of year. The aircraft
    oil pressure seems okay, my own is rising.
    Chances are that it is I who I will stop functioning,
    and not the engine. That has been serviced at least.
    Fifteen minutes into my flight, splendid weather.
    After a start of explosions of color in the trees—
    red, darker red, fiery red, many greens and beige-greens—
    the water looms ahead, calm, clear, reflecting
    the sky, with the river islands beyond: Allenholm
    and Savage. I fly over a few country houses
    with wheat towers and a single old church.
    The spire, old and tall, reaches skywards
    and all is quiet in the grass and hay fields below.
    I switch off my radio to listen to my own inner chatter
    and parasites. Twenty-five years ago, perhaps a week
    later in the year, I had walked the grounds below
    my wings, on the wings of youth and heartbeat.
    A look at the instruments that keep me alive:
    Check airspeed: 90 knots. Mind speed: Minus 25
    years and a stuck needle. Revolutions per minute
    are 2400 on the engine, zero in my life. I pass
    the larger fields and Perres field and Two Tails
    and lose height to look at the trees up close.
    Hundreds of shapes and sizes. I skim along
    the water and note white tree trunks, tall and thin,
    and behind them orange, fire red, green, and beige
    foliage. Reeds break from the surface, the hill behind
    is reflected in the still river. Ripple so slight
    you can easily miss it. Here live black bears,
    white-tailed deer, common loons, mergansers,
    bald eagles, beavers, coyotes, fishers, bobcats, brook
    and lake trout, land-locked salmon. Showy ladyslippers
    bloom in the spring, white and yellow water lilies
    throughout the summer. I remember talking of
    of the “Blue Line” which was the park boundary.
    I could not find it today if I tried. My own blue line
    is clear and ever-present. I had stayed 3 days and
    two nights in the farmhouse. We had seen and touched
    dandelion, Queen Anne's lace, goldenrod, and black-eyed Susan.
    Wild sarsaparilla, Solomon's seal, Indian pipe, bunchberry,
    and goldthread flourish amid the forests. Had also smoked
    a real colonial pipe, by the fire in the evening. Talked
    of Olson, the scene out west, George Hitchcok and Kayak.
    I climb away, and think of fern, bayberry, lotus, all native orchids,
    the five species of rhododendron (including azalea), and trillium.
    My fuel is low, and it is past lunch time. I decide where and
    land at Taylor field, Vermont,a bare grass strip. They make
    cheese around here, and I hope I won’t be cheesed off
    when they see me. Engine cut, I secure the aircraft
    and walk back to the old house, passing the barn on the way.
    A little more rust but nothing else seems to have changed.
    The outhouse is still there and the main residence 60 yards off.
    Dead branches bright orange-- the only other woody plants
    with orange dead branches are big tooth aspen and white ash.
    I hesitate before the door. Someone cooking inside—the smell
    makes me hungry enough to forget the other hunger inside me.
    Autumn, and what shall I say, barging in unannounced, and only
    with photos from my previous visit as a gift. I knock.
    Shuffling. A slight metallic noise, as if someone put a lid
    on an old pot. The guidebook had said that the waters ran east
    and south and flowed to Lake Champlain that borders New York State.
    If worse comes to worst, I can make a dash for the plane
    or take a speedboat and end up in a neighboring state.
    No way. My time is up. The door opens wide like a smile:
    A huge flurry of embrace and warm, wet kisses. Language.
    Resonant laughter and fragrance of perfume. Celebration.
    “Oh Nick, my God you haven’t changed a bit!!! Come in—what
    a pleasant surprise!! Why didn’t you call earlier, you rascal?”

    Nikos Tselepides
    Athens, Greece
    October 17th, 2006

    v3sista U Know Me

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    Thanks 4 the ride, I:goodpost: :bravo: Enjoyed it. See U around!!

    Posted By v3sista | Dec 9, 2006

    Benny New Member

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    Long work, but interesting enough to keep me to the end. Thank you for posting!

    Posted By Benny | Dec 13, 2006

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