The Blimp

In my part of the country, May brings thoughts of the Indy 500 and auto racing. I've never been a fan of motor sports. I'm not sure of the reason. It might be due to the fact I grew up close enough to the 500 track to hear the practice laps. Maybe that made the idea of the race too passé. Then again it might be a version of the same affliction that bothers the locals in just about every tourist destination, a simultaneous love and loathing of the hoards who flock to your town to spend money. The restaurants are filled, the streets are crowded, the stores are emptied, and the price on gas gets gouged an extra percentage. All of that can leave a taste of resentment on the pallet. 

The one thing I do remember fondly, though, is hearing the droning of propellers and running to my suburban back yard to watch the Goodyear Blimp passing overhead. I remember it donned in lights, flashing advertisements aimed at whoever else was drawn out by the sound of its passing to look up into the nighttime skies. Apparently the ad campaigns weren't very effective because I don't remember anything they were selling. I always imagined I might see the blimp signal to me; send a message that I should meet it in some remote field. I'd spend the rest of that evening imagining what it would be like to slip out the back door after everyone had gone to bed. I'd creep away to my rendezvous and before the sun came up I'd be gone on an adventure. The message never came, though, and May followed May until the idea of a fantastic escape died under the weight of daily life. 

Eventually, I got a toy blimp as a present, complete with a motorized, backlit sign with transparencies that could be colored in to create messages. It hung on monofilament in the bedroom window and occasionally I'd turn the battery-powered motor on to watch the messages I created scroll by. To this day I miss that blimp and when I've got a spare moment, sometimes I find myself browsing the internet in search of a replacement.

The blimp represented leaving everything behind and having nothing ahead but the horizon and scattered stars. The blimp of my memories was huge and silver, its seams ending in a bright red nosecone. The gondola that hung beneath seemed tiny compared to the envelope of helium that kept it aloft. There'd only be room for myself and maybe the dog, but together we'd find a better place and start a fantastic life there. I'm always slightly disappointed when I see the new blimp, smooth and painted in corporate colors, lacking the flickering a sign with which to signal the world. It seems smaller, though I'm not sure if that's not just an artifact of growing up. Still I can't help but running outside when I first hear that droning sound of engines, and my mind turns toward the horizon.