ROCHESTER

I used to watch hot air balloons drift over my house. I’d lounge on my deck in the backyard, either eating dinner or just relaxing, and occasionally I’d hear the distinctive whoosh of a jet firing. I’d look up to see an orange flame blasting from the burner. From my ground view, the basket floating overhead seemed enveloped by the balloon surrounding it from above.

The balloons billowy, multicolored floating dreams passing with purpose. And what vibrant colors! Reds, blues, greens, golds, purples. Bright pastel colors bulging outward, as full as the moon, yet as soft as a cloud.

I’m sure they were at a least a few hundred feet up, but I swear I could almost reach out and touch them passing overhead. I imagined standing on my roof, catching a line thrown down, and whisking away into the blue sky. Hanging on a thread. Climbing up into the basket. Entering an adventure taking me to magical lands over the rainbow.

Quite often we ate dinner out on the deck. If they flew over at dinner time, the wave of excitement washing over my kids and me made us drop our forks and cheer. We’d call out an excited hello to the balloonists, who waved and smiled. Our dinner still suspended, we’d gaze as they trailed off into the distance until the tallest tree branches robbed us of their glorious sight.

That was when we lived in Rochester, a town in Michigan. Rochester sits about 20 miles north of Detroit. Many years ago, we called it in the country. But with urban sprawl, it’s now a suburb.

Along the eastern border of Rochester lays Shelby Township; home to Stony Creek Metropark. It’s a beautiful park filled with pine trees, deer, picnic areas, and a lake. When I was a child, my mother used to pack up the car with kids and food. We’d drive the hour or so in the country to go to the beach there. What a time we’d have; swimming, playing in the sand, having a picnic. Then my exhausted siblings and I would sleep while Mom drove home.

As an adult I moved to Rochester and lived there while my children grew up. Being divorced, my youngest, Courtney, lived there every other weekend. My oldest, Brandi, lived with me. She went to school in Rochester. There’s nothing like being in a school system to become ingrained in a community. She was very popular and knew everybody. We couldn’t go anywhere without people coming up to her to say, “Hello.” It got to the point I was convinced she personally knew every man, woman, and child who lived in Rochester.

After a while, it didn’t faze me that people recognized her wherever we went. But, it did freak me out when it happened one time on vacation. We were at Higgins Lake, 200 miles north of Rochester, and standing in line at a grocery store. Courtney and I were talking when we noticed Brandi had wandered off and was hugging a lady in the next aisle. We found out she was the sister of a neighbor Brandi visited a lot. She lived in the area and just happened to be at the store. What a small world it truly is.

I know. I know. I’m lost in the past, and in yesterday’s post I warned how dangerous it is to stray from living in the “now.” Certainly it is best to be fully present — usually. But every once in a while, a trip down memory lane can soothe the soul. It’s a short respite from the daily pressures squeezing from all sides.

I just took a mini vacation, but now I’m back. However, I do still see a hot air balloon passing overhead out of the corner of my eye.

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