The Spruce Goose

She was twenty years old when she fell in love with a plane.



She slid out of the back of her friends’ car, pulling her dress down as she scrunched out from behind the passenger seat. It was only 7pm but already it was a dark night with crisp cold air. She had never been to the Evergreen Aviation Museum before, and they were all there for a forties themed swing dance. The large stone statue of a pilot before the entryway was surrounded by young, fancy, giddy women posing and taking pictures. The pilot looked serious and out of place amongst the giggling frenzy and she found much humor at his discomfort in the moment. As the others hurried to the door she fell behind and looked up at his face: she found it both ironic and fitting that he should be here to greet her. He reminded her of a young man she used to know and he held an air of grandeur dressed in uniform with a helmet under his arm. She greeted him more appropriately with distance and silence, because she knew him well, and his passion for his trade beckoned her to follow the others inside.

They all walked into the hanger together, and with all of them young and pretty, she felt just like a youthful women from the forties: sophisticated, bright, and beautiful. They walked past the flags into the presence of history and she felt the weight of the character she embodied drifting heavily down upon her. Planes encompassing years of war, cultures, and countries surrounded her and she walked with black heels clicking smartly and pencil skirt keeping her straight. And that’s when she looked up.

The large wing of the Spruce Goose hung above her and everything began to take on an incredulous clarity. Her heels clicking slowly on the white hanger floor as she followed the wing deeper into the hanger. Her laughter that came out unsteady with disbelief. She had never seen anything so huge. She had never felt so small. She had never been so in awe. And standing beneath one of the wonders of the world and only being able to take in pieces of it in sweeping glances, she suddenly felt quite beautiful: like a young bright woman of the forties with hair swooped up in sophistication, with straight modest dress communicating class, and with bright lips both innocent and smart ready to live the right way.

She walked beneath the enormous wing of the Spruce Goose, and stood dwarfed by its hull, and she fell in love. It was giving off rays from its time and she was soaking them in. They made her into Rosie the Riveter, out for a night of fun with a live band and swing music, ready to dance with a boogie woogie bugle boy. So she did: she danced under its enormous tail, and laughed, and looked at all the company of planes and cars and was very much enamored by this new large love. This wonder of the modern world. This impossible feat. This embodiment of a miracle.



She was nineteen years old when she decided she would never love a pilot again, and she was twenty years old when she fell in love with a plane instead.

12/11/11