The Wapsie River below Rick’s Place
I do not currently reside at a destination. This is one of those places in the United States of America over which jet airliners fly on their way to a destination. I live under the flight path of a good deal of the western air traffic out of O’Hare—flights to and from Denver, Portland, San Francisco. The jet airliners are at about 35,000 feet as they pass over.
In another life I rode on those jet airliners quite often. I try not to make a practice of that now. Too humiliating. Beneath what I like to think of as my dignity. About four years ago I was riding jet airliners from Mexico City to Philadelphia. In the Houston airport I was drug out of line, taken to a private booth by the TSA guys, and given a full body pat-down. Something about my appearance or my demeanor aroused suspicion. Now I prefer simply to watch those jet airliners fly over rather than consent to something like that simply by virtue of having bought a ticket.
In more temperate seasons I like to build a large wood fire of an evening in the fire pit; sit out there and watch the twinkling lights of those jet airliners up in the night sky. That big wood fire provides an additional visual navigational aid to those pilots should their electronic stuff temporarily give out. Not much else to see around here. During this time of year, however, with the fire pit under six feet of snow and the wind chills routinely well below zero Fahrenheit at night, those jet airliner pilots are on their own.