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I'd been inside all day staring
at a screen, occasionally looking up at the clear skies visible through our
office window. It was time to get out and enjoy what little was left of the
setting sun on this already short day in a shortening season. I'd just stepped
into the alley when I heard a jet screaming louder than I'd ever heard one
here atop our ridge right in the flight path of
Sea-Tac.
I unpocketed my camera quick as on old west
gunslinger
and had it pointed towards the sound even before I could see the plane, half
expecting to witness an airliner crashing into our neighborhood. As the noise
crescendoed, it emerged directly above our house, lower--or maybe just
larger--than any of the many jets which have flown over us before: a
B52, streaming
heavy black exhaust smoke from its 8 enormous engines as it hauled ass west,
then north, perhaps on its way to the other side of the world, carrying
who knows what, designed and built right here in the
Seattle-Tacoma corridor. It was a chilling sight, the first time in 9 years
living here that I've seen the likes of it. As large and loud as it was,
it disappeared and
Dopplered
into silence very quickly. I went to the end of the alley to watch the sunset.
A dog smaller than a bread box barked at me, running out its retractable
leash as it reached halfway across the Fremont View apartment building parking
lot before it had to stop. I asked its owner (who delighted in her dog's
attempts to be scary), "Did you see that B52?" "Yeah!" she replied, intrigued
but untroubled. I said, "That was eerie"--which put an end to our
conversation. The earth kept spinning. Later, Sarah and I went to Nectar
to check out
Clinton
Fearon; I'd just booked him to play
a New Year's party
and figured it'd be smart to hear him live. The band sounded great--nothing
at all like war.
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