Have you ever awakened too early in the morning and noticed that the floor wasn’t where you had left it?

That’s what happened to me.

It made me wonder what was I doing in a hot air balloon.

It was impossible for me not to buy the tickets to jump on the balloon bandwagon. The pilot’s wife had called me a gentleman.

“Hot dog!” I thought. “I’ve been given a complimentary upgrade.”

My wife and I received detailed safety instructions that we needed to commit to memory before boarding the basket. It was pretty much this, “Whatever you do, don’t fall out.”

I’d hoped my wife had gleaned more useful information as we climbed in and slipped the surly bonds of earth. Fortunately, they weren’t all that slippery. Up, up and away we went.

It was a pleasant experience. I felt as if I were on a cloud, a colorful cloud.

A little known fact is that the great buffalo (bison) herds often used hot air balloons for transportation to help the animals avoid stampedes while they moved across the endless prairies.

I tried not to smile too broadly to keep from swallowing many unidentified insects. I controlled an outward expression of joy by trying to think of what that thing is called that hangs down like a punching bag in the back of a human throat. It dangles from the soft palate above the base of the tongue. It’s the uvula, palatine uvula or uvula palatina. I’d have accepted any of those as the correct answer. I learned about the uvula on educational TV, an ancient “Saturday Night Live” episode in which a woman was reminded, “Babs, it’ll behoove ya, to care for your uvula.”

Back to the hot air balloon where I was considered an alternative fuel source.

I didn’t mind that the pilot was texting while flying, but I became concerned when he ate his cellphone. I figured out later that he’d been staring at a Pop-Tart. There was no steering wheel or brakes on the balloon. There was no shifting. Apparently the balloon had an automatic transmission. It was like a big Christmas tree ornament floating into the wild blue yonder.

Leonardo da Vinci wrote, “Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”

You also long for the skies if you’ve ever been hit by a water balloon dropped from a hot air balloon.

If Mr. T had been soaring with us, he’d have growled, “I pity the fool who wasn’t in this basket.”

People look up to those who ride the skies in hot air balloons. If you have too many weeds in your life’s flowerbed, change your altitude. Hop a balloon bound for a happier place.

All good things come to an end. We landed with a thump, but it was a gentle thump and I expect that the hitch in my gitalong will go away in time.

Hot air balloons are wonderful, but they aren’t for those with delicate stomachs or weak bladders. There is no bathroom aboard.

 

Time waits for snowman

Hal Borland wrote, “No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.”

It was a nice winter. No one in the neighborhood was eaten by a polar bear.

Spring training began, which has nothing to do with teaching a Slinky how to go down the stairs.

Snow fell after most of us has hoped it had retired. A lot of snow fell. That was a good thing. We don’t want spring to arrive before we’re done complaining about winter. Besides the robins need at least three snows on their tails before it’s truly spring. Mother told me that and I’ve no reason to doubt her.

Minnesota is the land of 15,241 lakes, give or take whatever number makes you happy. Potholes cause that number to skyrocket.

Spring is a growing presence. A neighbor boy breaks out in pimples every spring. He’s budding. Spring welcomes free-range dandelions and rhubarb, which is celery that has worked its way up into a pie.

Someone, probably that famed writer, Anonymous, wrote this ode to spring, “Spring has sprung. The grass has riz. I wonder where the birdies is? The little birds is on the wing. Why that’s absurd! The wing is on the bird!”

If you want to know where the birds are, just listen. Singing birds are throwing their hearts at the world.

Have a stunning spring.

 

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.