looking up. Blue skies with billowy white clouds would make his plain, serious face cavort. He and Orville would exchange a quick, knowing look, and like lovers they were off to the beach. There in a shack, or a “hangar,” as the brothers called it, their true love waited for them. Wilbur and Orville gave every penny they made to her. They gave her their youth. She would make them immortal. She was 745 pounds, had a motor filled with fuel, and was ready for flight.
As Wilbur took in the village of Kitty Hawk from 852 feet up in the air, he thought for one second about the pact that he and Orville had entered into and for another second he felt fear. A third second was devoted to their father, Bishop Milton Wright of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, and to his sermons about the Devil and the great and evil deeds that he allowed men to do in his name. This sequence of thoughts left Wilbur with fifty-six seconds remaining to fly unencumbered. He did. All the while, Wilbur was hearing his song.
From sixth to eighth grade, Wade the orange sherbet boy and I continued the conversation that I had started on the first day of sixth grade. We began the moment that we both got to the bus stop in the morning, and we ended five to seven minutes later, when the bus pulled up to the SLOW CHILDREN sign. What began with his repertoire of knock-knock jokes grew to include the pros and cons of his favorite arcade games, his thoughts on why basketball was better than football, and what small animals he had spotted while riding his bike around Boiling Springs. I told him about what I was reading, mostly Greek myths and about the constellations that went with them. I drew the stars for Wade on my notebook because when he and I talked they were hidden in the sky. I told Wade that if we had lived long ago we would have used these constellations to remember stories and to find our way home again when we sailed the seas. He said he had been to the Outer Banks and had seen the Atlantic Ocean and that he didn’t like its choppy waters. I said I hadn’t made up my mind, which really meant that I hadn’t seen anything larger than Moss Lake, landlocked and nearby.
Because there was always a known and dependable endpoint to our talks, I was able to enjoy them. I was also fast learning the art of hiding what was happening to me inside. If the incomings were particularly unpleasant—mornings were, and still are, the most difficult time for me as I’m more sensitive after a night of sleep and silence—I would pretend to look at something past Wade’s shoulders, behind me, or down at my shoes.
Later in life, I would find that this technique worked well for other reasons as well. Men would think that I was distracted, uninterested, or bored with them, and they would work even harder to get my attention. I had inadvertently tapped into the shallow recesses of the male psyche and into the instinct known as the Chase. The principles were simple, though many books have been written about them for consumption by lovelorn females. The first principle was that the most coveted Prey was the one that didn’t want to be caught (see such classics as Catch Me If You Can and Foxes & Bunnies) . The second principle was that the most coveted Prey was the one that was in someone else’s mouth (see I’ll Have What He’s Having and First, You Date His Best Friend ).
Wade and I were precariously close but not yet part of the full-blown pursuit. Our morning exchanges of jokes, declaratives, and minutiae were our way of running around each other and sniffing at each other’s scent. Talking with Wade made me feel like I was dancing fast with my eyes closed. I was learning that I was willing to endure a lot of words to feel this way. My whole body was awake. I heard Wade’s voice, as I heard my great-uncle’s 45’s, with my skin. How Wade felt talking to me wasn’t a question that I had to ask myself or him because doubt, a toxin that entered my body
As Wilbur took in the village of Kitty Hawk from 852 feet up in the air, he thought for one second about the pact that he and Orville had entered into and for another second he felt fear. A third second was devoted to their father, Bishop Milton Wright of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, and to his sermons about the Devil and the great and evil deeds that he allowed men to do in his name. This sequence of thoughts left Wilbur with fifty-six seconds remaining to fly unencumbered. He did. All the while, Wilbur was hearing his song.
From sixth to eighth grade, Wade the orange sherbet boy and I continued the conversation that I had started on the first day of sixth grade. We began the moment that we both got to the bus stop in the morning, and we ended five to seven minutes later, when the bus pulled up to the SLOW CHILDREN sign. What began with his repertoire of knock-knock jokes grew to include the pros and cons of his favorite arcade games, his thoughts on why basketball was better than football, and what small animals he had spotted while riding his bike around Boiling Springs. I told him about what I was reading, mostly Greek myths and about the constellations that went with them. I drew the stars for Wade on my notebook because when he and I talked they were hidden in the sky. I told Wade that if we had lived long ago we would have used these constellations to remember stories and to find our way home again when we sailed the seas. He said he had been to the Outer Banks and had seen the Atlantic Ocean and that he didn’t like its choppy waters. I said I hadn’t made up my mind, which really meant that I hadn’t seen anything larger than Moss Lake, landlocked and nearby.
Because there was always a known and dependable endpoint to our talks, I was able to enjoy them. I was also fast learning the art of hiding what was happening to me inside. If the incomings were particularly unpleasant—mornings were, and still are, the most difficult time for me as I’m more sensitive after a night of sleep and silence—I would pretend to look at something past Wade’s shoulders, behind me, or down at my shoes.
Later in life, I would find that this technique worked well for other reasons as well. Men would think that I was distracted, uninterested, or bored with them, and they would work even harder to get my attention. I had inadvertently tapped into the shallow recesses of the male psyche and into the instinct known as the Chase. The principles were simple, though many books have been written about them for consumption by lovelorn females. The first principle was that the most coveted Prey was the one that didn’t want to be caught (see such classics as Catch Me If You Can and Foxes & Bunnies) . The second principle was that the most coveted Prey was the one that was in someone else’s mouth (see I’ll Have What He’s Having and First, You Date His Best Friend ).
Wade and I were precariously close but not yet part of the full-blown pursuit. Our morning exchanges of jokes, declaratives, and minutiae were our way of running around each other and sniffing at each other’s scent. Talking with Wade made me feel like I was dancing fast with my eyes closed. I was learning that I was willing to endure a lot of words to feel this way. My whole body was awake. I heard Wade’s voice, as I heard my great-uncle’s 45’s, with my skin. How Wade felt talking to me wasn’t a question that I had to ask myself or him because doubt, a toxin that entered my body
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