A Place to Wonder

I’ve got a getaway in northern Pennsylvania. I found some land near Marienville, a good fifty acres that is somewhat level. A builder came in and did a nice job of completing what me and my architect asked of him. The place only has three bedrooms. One serves as my office where I do my writing. The other is there in case I choose to have visitors. That’s unlikely to happen. I would have had the damn thing built with one bedroom, but I had to consider resale values for the benefit of my kids. If they don’t want a spare place in the middle of a forest once I am dead and gone, they will have heavier pockets because of the extra room when they sell it. I’m always thinking ahead like that. Heck, I made sure the plans were drawn up with only one floor so that when I am old, I can visit the cabin I love very much for as long as I have my independence. That’s an important thing for me because I almost always travel there with the sole purpose of being alone. Once the place was finished, and I explored the neighborhood, I came to realize that folks stuck a name on their huts. I special ordered one from the excavator’s daughter who runs a small shop in town. I hung it on an empty space above the garage. It reads, “A Place to Wonder.” A fitting name, because it is where I go to think. 

I am not there a lot. A few days here, a week there as the need be. I go there when the mood strikes me, often helped along by the fact that the world is moving too fast, and I want to step off. Still, I had my dwelling furnished with the best of everything. The kitchen sits out in the open next to the living room. It’s state-of-the-art and soaked in stainless steel, even though I rarely cook anything except the occasional egg sandwich. That hasn’t been a problem because there is a dandy little tavern in town run by good folks who treat me like they have known me my whole life. Jim and Sandra are the owners. They have a pretty blonde-haired daughter, about twenty three. Julia is her name. I came to the conclusion that she is insane, and I should have known this because it seems her eyes are open too wide all the time. Sometimes Jim or Sandy will send a car for me since our distance apart only equals five minutes, and they don’t particularly like me darting off into the dark after I have enjoyed the alcoholic side of their establishment for several hours. I never let Julia drive me home. I protest every single time someone assigns her the task, and I am always placated. It would spell trouble one way or another. I did not build a small palace near a national forest to bring hardship into my life.

The living room is mostly bare, and more boring. There is a fabric sofa and loveseat at a ninety degree angle to each other, but I rarely sit on them unless it’s not hammock weather thanks to winter’s presence. I could have chosen leather, but I did not. Dead cows are fine in my SUV, but I don’t like the feel of it when I want to be warm or cool while stretched out horizontally. An under-used eighty inch flat-screen LED television hangs on the stone wall above the fireplace. It’s never on. It is only there in case something blows up or caves in, and I want to see it in on the news with smoother motion than the shit Internet service of the mountains has to offer. It’s always been my opinion that almost everything offered on cable is cow manure anyhow. The boob tube is the first invention that ushered in the term “dumbing down of the world.” What a shame.

I do have a favorite room. It’s a short walk down a narrow hallway that opens up into five hundred square feet of indoor bliss. There is no far wall because it is curved, with nine feet windows, ten of them, all the way around. There is nothing in there but a hot tub, a ceramic tile floor, and the best surround-sound system I could get, or so said the salesman at the gadget store in the big town a hundred miles away. (It’s also equipped with a high end dehumidifying system that is absent from the eye.) What an experience it is, to sit in that bath, Deep Forest Radio playing on Pandora, one hundred eighty degrees of nature visible if you choose to open your eyes. I’ve even got a remote control for the window blinds at my disposal for those rare times when I am able to coax Mrs. Harry away from our beloved shore house, and I don’t wish for any bears, deer, or other wildlife to see what naughtiness may be going on. It’s my favorite place to be when I’m not in the mood to sit in my office while nailing words together.

Next to the house sits my pride and joy within my pride and joy. It’s an airplane house, which without the help from my excavator friend, Big Joe, would have never been possible. He helped me clear a few acres of trees and level a few incorrigible hills to construct a grass runway of seventeen hundred feet long. Sure, it contains plenty more length than I need. It was calculated to let in a few friends with a love of antique sky baskets, but just a few feet short as to help keep out the riffraff with twin engines and turbines. The hangar alone just about exceeds the square footage of the house which is a proper thing for a pilot. I could easily fit two airplanes in there. I have just one, two tractors, a pool table and a small bar. Let me not stray from the purpose of my airplane barn, it houses my only love outside of my wife, kids, and the written word.

I have accidentally broken the family bond of owning an airplane built by American Champion and got myself a Carbon Cub. That would have not happened if I had not taken a fancy to the design while at the Sun and Fun airshow in Florida a few years back. Six months ago, I located a pre-flown 2011 Cub out in the Midwest. After a commercial airline flight, more money than my wife is happy about, and a week’s journey back east because of uncooperative weather, she is finally home. I should mention that home means wherever I am. If I am at our home base in Berks County, she is with me. If I am at our beach house, she rests at the local airport. When I want to travel to “A Place to Wonder” she is my primary mode of transportation. A six-hour car ride is chopped into two because of her wings and formidable power plant. It’s never a rushed, straight-line flight. I like low and slow and sometimes deliberately let her fly where I feel something interesting is waiting for us to see. When we near the cabin, it is common procedure to cruise a few hundred feet above and parallel to Interstate 80. I like to watch the trucks crawling along the road, and remember what it was like to do that. I wonder if any of the drivers wonder about the things I wondered about when I was constantly stuck to the ground on eighteen wheels. I finally peel off to the right and head for my retreat in the north, happy that I learned to wonder. Embracing that ability has given me my airplane and my place in the woods (and a lot of other materialistic goods that I don’t care as much about.)

I would guess that my Cub and its hangar are my two favorite things in my country paradise. Every pretty evening when we’re in attendance at A Place to Wonder, I roll her out and chase the setting sun. Sometimes we fly in the formation of hawks, circling together as we become one. On certain occasions, we terrorize our far-scattered neighbors throwing outdoor parties by buzzing by at treetop level. When I see them at the pub, they tell me that they enjoy such a thing, though I am positive that the FAA wished they would not egg me on and encourage such risky behavior. Landing comes just before the last light. With the airplane tucked away, out comes the comfortable lawn chair with a handy holder for an adult beverage. With what’s left of the sun’s work, I listen to the birds and watch the hawks who are still flying, not concerned one bit with the darkness absorbing our world. I will stay upon the cobblestone floor in front of my hangar until dark, sipping beer and wondering about everything. After that, I lock up the hangar even though there is no reason to, and retreat to my office where I write for several hours straight. Then comes sleep followed by more writing in morning. The early routine is subject to change if the morning show calls me to the sky. Smooth air, a rising sun with a side order of scattered puffy white clouds is a welcome distraction to any writer. It is a wonderful life.

So why have I built the ultimate man cave? Well, unlike the rest of the world, I am not afraid to be alone with myself. Embracing my introvertness allows me to be a better thinker, and I like the thoughts I think when abstaining from listening to people talk too much. I thrive on quiet solitude. It reminds of me of something that Charles Bukowski once said. He was asked if he hates people to which he responded, “I don’t hate them…I just feel better when they’re not around.” Chuck and I could be friends.

The only problem with my compound in the hills is that it hasn’t been built yet. I haven’t been to the pub or met Jim and Sandra yet (or their crazy daughter with the weird eyes.) I’ve yet to secure my Cub and pulled back on her stick as we launched on a sunset run. The whole thing came about during a very real and recent trip through the Allegheny National Forest while holding the wheel of an eighteen wheeler. I am more of a fan of sand and waves than I am bugs and sticks. I’ve also spent my entire existence questioning why I had to be born in Pennsylvania.  Surely, I might have better enjoyed living in the southwest where things are more wide open, or anyplace that has waves and might be more interesting than here. However, that trip in my rig was my first adventure through those parts. I surprised myself by liking it, even feeling comfortable to the point that I wanted to stay awhile. I was also impressed by a new realization: I’ve lived in the Keystone State my entire forty years, yet I am only now discovering new parts within her borders. That is amazing to me. I am glad I was born here after all. Pennsylvania seems like a fine place to wonder.