Airborne Nostalgia

{Penny Lane} After shoving my carry-on into the overhead bin, squeezing my Timbuk2 under the seat in front of me, letting the skinny, big-sweatshirted girl into the window seat next to me, making sure my seat belt was securely fastened, my seat back and tray table was in its upright and locked position, I popped in my earbuds and turned on Shuffle.  Of course, "Weary Memory" turned on and I was forced into airborne nostalgia.  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to hide the tears.  When you fly west from New York to Wisconsin at night you chase the sun, so the sky stays periwinkle the whole time.  When you fly east from Wisconsin to New York you chase time, and an hour escapes your life, leaving no trace and leaving you an hour older without living it.  Why is it that airplanes make me so nostalgic?  It's always in this space between places I have been and will be soon that I think the clearest, that I feel closest to epiphany?  It must be the altitude, the thinness of the air, the hours that escape into passing infinity.

On this particular journey east, I thought about how there's an infinite number of things that one can learn if they just open their eyes and ears to their surroundings - especially when those surroundings are new, or out of the ordinary.  I learned that it costs almost a thousand dollars to stuff one deer head.  That the earth's water table has been dropping for the past few decades.  That a "45" means that the bullet inside the gun is 45 millimeters in diameter.  That if there is a motor on your boat, it must be registered, or the DNR will come at you like bats out of hell on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.  That everybody's happy in the fast-food restaurants of Antigo.  That deer ticks are the really bad Lyme-disease ticks and wood ticks aren't so bad but their abundance this time of year is bewildering.  That face cards have different personalities.  That my sister-in-law is an avid ATV extraordinaire.  That if knots in wooden ceilings are stared at long enough, they turn into animals.  That one way to unclog a pond is to throw a stick of dynamite in it.   That Robert Pattenson is actually of British descent.  That the unassuming, unyielding hospitality of a childhood friend is absolutely priceless.  That long walks in the drizzling, mid-western rain are worth it.  That I dish out platefuls of sarcasm, but can't take it.