listening to the roar of what sounded like a jet coming in for a landing at Tallahassee Regional. Of course, Fred would have known the model for certain, being a former Direct mechanic.
He would have shouted, "Seven-thirty-seven…eh, Yes Sir!" from his porch and I would reply, "I knew that, I was just waiting to see if you were still on top of your game, Fred."
"Man-made eagle. I'd fly me one if I knew how." And this was how Fred and I, how we, spent our days.
Saturday, December 23rd:
It seems I must have missed Fred these last few days. It would be good to know that he went to visit family for the holiday.
Saturday, January 7th:
Still no sign of Fred; only signs of a bare and aging winter. All I could hear was the early morning winds whistling through my windows and intruding under my front door. I listened - for the planes… among other things as thoughts of my retirement plagued my mind. By the passing of the 6th plane overhead, I was bored of assuming what model soared overhead. I wasn't amused; not without hearing Fred's grimy voice calling out model numbers to me. Where was the toxic stench from the smoke of Fred's Port creeping by my porch to torment my nostrils as I took my first sips of hot raspberry Lipton Tea? I squeamishly squirmed at the thought of not hearing his wheezing cough that he deliberately muffled under an old soiled handkerchief he used to wipe his occasional
