Some childhood memories are crystal clear. A person knows exactly where they happened and how. Others, not so much. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has weird amalgams of memories that are impossible to pick apart, that live independent of time and space and context.
I was an air force brat. We lived on and near bases for my first decade on earth. The bases I remember best were in Zweibrücken, Germany and Mountain Home, Idaho. The memory that won't leave me alone today comes from one of those two places... or both. I really can't be sure how it works. I will go with how I imagine this came to be, and if one of my parents wants to finesse the details a bit, they are welcome to do so.
Many of my childhood summer memories are merely emotions. I remember tolerating riding all over town on my bike in Mountain Home. I remember being okay with being out in the sun when I was younger than 8 or 9, as if the sun just didn't hurt me before then, or at least not like it did once I was closer to 10 and beyond. This memory is associated with sun and heat, but not in the way I feel it now. I was probably 8, and it was probably in Idaho when I was at the base swimming pool. It was in a half-barrel shaped building, one that blended in architecturally with 1970s-era airplane hangers and offices. I remember hearing the song Afternoon Delight, and being no older than 8, having absolutely no clue what the song was about. For some reason, even now when I hear it, in my mind, I am back standing next to that swimming pool, either just inside giant arching windows along one long side, or just outside of it, on a narrow sidewalk that ran the length of the building. I feel like I am looking up in the sky, waiting for the Thunderbirds to do a flyover. Also, in my head it's always the 4th of July.
Why does this memory persist? Why do I automatically associate Afternoon Delight with watching a trick flying squad from near a swimming pool? It gets me every single time, and I can't tell which is the most ludicrous part of it. If I had to guess, I'd go with permanently thinking that a song about daytime sex was a theme song for the air force's top flyers, and that it was totally normal for a grade school kid to think so.
Today was the graduation ceremony for the Air Force Academy. They went ahead and had it in person, although the family members were not invited, and word is the cadets were seated a proper distance apart. The vice president came in for the ceremony. The Thunderbirds did a flyover of the graduation, and then while they were here in Colorado, they did a special loop up and down the Front Range, ostensibly as a treat/salute for medical personnel and essential workers. They were supposed to be overhead right around 1 pm, so I made sure I had clothes on, after a fashion (dirty jeans, slippers, and a cardigan over a clean shirt), and I went out at about 12:58. I slowly wandered around my front yard, and greeted T who was next door using his table saw in his driveway. I squished snow with my slippers, and waited. I tried to take a photo of my peony sprouts, looking abused by the most recent snow, and had to brighten my screen and remove my darkened glasses to recognize that the first picture was of me scowling at the camera that was pointed the wrong way. I stayed out for at least 15 minutes before I gave up and went inside, wondering whether the cloud deck was so low that they scrubbed the mission. (I asked the Mr if he thought that was the case, and he said he doubted they would be flying under the deck, to be seen.)
I started scanning Twitter, namely the Denver station that alerted me to the planned flyover in the first place. Lots of people in Northern Colorado were checking in, saying they were still waiting. Eventually, people started saying that they were sighted over Greeley. I went back out and waited, watching the skies, and trying to listen for a sound that was different than the highway that is a mile from here.
I had been out about five minutes when a neighbor (from somewhere) walked by with his dog, a handsome mastiff/boxer type pupper. I was standing halfway down my driveway, and the good boy stopped, looked at me, and waited to be acknowledged. When I said hello, he wagged his tail and daintily stepped through the snow to see me. I agreed to his request for pets, as long as he came to me so I could keep 6 feet away from his human.
So it was that my camera was still in my pocket when we heard the sound of jets. They didn't come from the north, as I expected, but from the southeast, looping around in formation, arcing west toward Boulder. I couldn't believe how low they were, how close they were to my neighborhood. It was fantastic!
With no photos of my own, I retweeted a video that might have been from my hometown, maybe? You're welcome to go see it on my page, @smithparkccl, but strong advisory: Here I am 98% apolitical. There, I let my freak flag fly. Proceed with caution.
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