Up in the Delta sky

The crop duster danced through the Delta sky in a graceful aerial ballet.  The pilot hit the button, sprayed the soybeans and yanked hard back on the stick.  The crop duster quickly went skyward just before the yellow Air Tractor 301 plowed into into the powerlines.  “It sure beat dropping napalm in Vietnam,” he thought.  The sky was his kingdom.  His plane was his castle.

He came back around for another pass.  He pushed the stick forward and dove down toward the earth.  He chuckled —  the plane probably looked like a pelican diving for a fish. The Pratt & Whitney radial engine roared — it reminded him of his old plane, the Air Force A-1 Skyraider.  It was his job during the war to provide close air support for downed pilots.  His lips had tasted dozens of free beers bought by rescued airmen. Saving men was his job. And he was very good at it.

Just like this job.  Another pass and he’d be done.  Once again, he yanked back the stick. The G-forces pressed his head back into the seat.  The sky was a deep blue as he stared into the heavens.  The Delta was God’s canvas.  And today was His masterpiece.

He looked to the South. The backwater flooding of the Yazoo River had cut through the corn and wheat crops like a drunken reaper.   In a sea of green, patches of brown marked where the water had been.  Governor Haley Barbour had called the water, “nasty.” That wasn’t being fair to nasty.  It was freakin’ gross.

The pilot looked over to the North. He could see Indianola in the distance.  The great B.B. King’s museum was in Indianola.  That was where the pilot had met his second wife during one of B.B.’s famous homecoming concerts.  It was great for a while but as B.B. sang, “The Thrill is Gone“.  And so was she.  His second wife had left one night with his dog and his truck.  She couldn’t compete with “that damned airplane.”

He sure missed his dog.

A quick scan of the gauges showed everything was in order.  He could see the Mississippi off on the horizon. Old Man River had really thrown a piss fit this year.  Thankfully the Corps had gotten this one right: The mainline levee had held. The Great Flood of 2011 would have sunk his beloved Delta.

He followed 49W north to the airfield.  B.B. had Lucille. He had “Angie”.  Angie was his plane that was named for his first wife. Cancer had taken her from him.  His eyes stung. It must have been the sun. He wiped his face with a rag.

Angie’s picture was in the cockpit.  She was his Angel. She protected him when he flew like a madman over the cotton and soybean fields of the Mississippi Delta.  He passed over the airport, checked the windsock and eased back on the throttle.  He then banked hard and lowered the flaps.  The plane clawed against the air and defied gravity for just a few moments more.  The wheels touched down — another perfect landing.

He taxied into the open hangar and killed the engine.   He picked up the picture of his angel and kissed her good night.

Seventeen thousand hours in the air.  Seventeen thousand hours to be closer to her.  To Angie. He flew to touch the bounds of Heaven.  High up in the Delta sky.