Working on Saturday isn’t right. It just isn’t. At least not when it’s for someone else.
Looking over the needs for next week, I came to the conclusion, I needed to come in to work today so to avoid total disaster on Monday. It’s a grown up thing I think. I hate being a grown-up.
However, I learned last week that a working B-17 bomber from WWII would be in a town not too far from here.
Usually it’s a 10 mile ride to work. A quick zip around the hill, buzz by the Capitol building and straight up the hill to the University. Easy and quick.
My commute on this day would lead me onto a beautiful morning drive up into the mountains, past Park City, one of the venues for the winter games, cruising past
lakes and rivers, and on to Heber City and its small private plane airport. About 60 miles total.
I’ve seen a B-17 before, but I’ve never seen a working one. I watched it fire up its four engines, coughing out smoke and flames. I took in its sound and aviation fuel fumes as it taxied away from us and roared back down the airstrip, somehow lifting that big body off of the ground, I hung around to watch it circle the airport and land, setting down so gently it amazed me. I only wish I had the Mucho Denaro’s to buy a ticket to go for a ride.
I looked over the other aircraft they had and some old WWII vehicles on display- many if not all working, and boogied my way back down the hill after about 2 hours and got to work.
It’ll be a short day today, maybe 4 hours or so. Just enough to keep the alligators off my butt next week.
I wish every work day was like this one.