When we moved into our house in 1979 our yard abutted against ninety acres of farmland. At the far edge was an area of savanna with mostly one-hundred year old oak trees.

We had a wonderful vista to the West. Ballooning was a popular endeavor and it was not uncommon to see five, seven or nine balloons. Either in the early morning or evening when winds were light we would hear the roar of the burner and search the sky for the balloon.

In the thirty years we have lived here, a subdivision of 300 homes has been built on the 90 acres. The balloon port launches few balloons. Some years we see none. We can no longer look far to the West and search for the sunset, the approaching weather, the Sunday evening traffic on US 12 returning from the Chain O'Lakes or Wisconsin.

I was cooking dinner on the grill when my heart sprang again to joy at the long lost, familiar sound; the "WHOOSH! whoosh!"



I heard that sound! The neighbors behind us, sitting on their porch, exclaimed, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!


As they skimmed the tree tops I could clearly see the pilot and the man and woman riding with him.



Since the school expansion the practice field is a target of one half the size. The basket drug through the tree top and he sat it down in the middle.

Chase team and people from the neighborhood gravitated toward the field. I could hear the clamour and excitement in the voices.

Adults and children alike were drawn to the balloon and the activity of deflating the balloon, folding and packing it. I brought back memories of my children rushing to the school to see the balloons.