Peering through those glass walls overlooking the tarmac filled a child with awe. There, gazing eyes were close enough to read the plane's numbers and admire each airline's distinct detailing. Beautiful, slick beasts crawled along the tarmac, marionettes held captive by the air traffic controller above. "Which one was next?" the boy would wonder. Then, seemingly without warning, the tower gave word, setting a beast free. With engines blazing, it set off skyward.
Tarmac-gazing has long since disappeared, and along with it the spellbound eyes of countless young children longing for inspiration and adventure. Today, only those going off on the adventure itself get a glimpse of the tarmac's beauty. Without a ticket, a child bids a relative farewell without ever seeing their plane lift off.
I imagine the ghosts of Wilbur and Orville Wright, having floated through security, standing in the terminal and peering out at the planes. Wonder must fill their hearts. Then, noticing no one else is doing the same, that wonder must turn to sadness. They look around, only to find themselves surrounded by hurried and harried white rabbits with eyes fixed on books, phones, and inventions beyond their comprehension.
All of which makes the quaint and quiet airport down the road all the more special. Here, a child can peer through and, yes, even sit atop the five-foot gate separating pilot from pupil. Sept. 11 hasn't reached here yet, as this airport is more a playground for the weekend pilot (who once upon a time was a tarmac-gazer, I am sure) and a taxi depot for the anonymous wealthy and their equally anonymous chartered flights.
