Of the Occasion Upon Which My Balloon Left Me and My Subsequent Attempts to Retrieve It

It may appear, to the casual reader, that this tale concerns only the most frivolous and marginal of events, and deserves no place in the productive, modern society. To whomever this first thought may have occurred, I suggest that you have failed to grasp the truly powerful hold a red balloon exerts upon the youthful heart. Whether you were robbed of a usual childhood entirely or simply missed this experience through a freak happenstance in your upbringing, I would not guess. I can only say that you have egregiously underestimated the power of a childhood fascination.

The sad events themselves occurred upon a warm, blustery afternoon of late May. It was the time of year when the vivacity of spring still lingers, albeit distorted, upon the dying petals of the early bloom, and children such as I were instilled with an insatiable desire to seek mischief in all forms.

The circumstances under which I acquired that ill-fated balloon have long since faded in my memory, marginal as they were, considering the events to follow. My father, myself, and my balloon were, the three of us, crossing a lonely parking lot. When I look back upon that time, I suspect my father must have been in a foul mood, although I cannot say decidedly one way or the other, for such adult emotions as surliness and cantankerousness so often fail to register in the immature mind.

I was enjoying thoroughly the sight of my glorious red balloon being buffeted to and fro by a gentle wind, and had scarcely a care in the world. Perhaps it was in the spirit of rectifying my utter happiness that the universe arranged for the events that followed to transpire.

My childhood giddiness was wrenched from me as suddenly as my beautiful red balloon, both carried away by a sudden surge of a more sinister wind than had previously been blowing. I flew to my father's side, ten desperate strides away, and clung to him in terror as all the majesty I had ever known in life floated gently upwards, to be forever beyond my grasp. Though sobs wracked my body, I managed to impart to him my longing for my balloon to return to me. I begged, even demanded, that he, with the unlimited power that any parent has in the eyes of his child, find a way to return my balloon to me, and thus render me whole again.

My father, bless his enduring soul, returned my grave stare with a sympathetic glance of his own and replied that such a feat was impossible, even for the likes of him.

I was most distraught upon hearing his assessment of the situation and attempted to console myself with the thought that perhaps the far distant land the balloon was now traveling towards would be a better place, where balloons such as mine could live in a harmony unknown to balloon-kind in parking lots such as that which my balloon had just vacated.

Far from easing my suffering, however, the thought that my beloved balloon could have benefited from the tragedy that had just befallen me pushed me into a new wave of grief that my father was unable to alleviate.

It was then that I espied that most glorious of fresh hopes: a passing airplane. It was as though my precise need had been seen and answered in a single instant, and for the first time in my young life, I began to entertain serious thoughts about a higher being. The airplane was perfectly suited to my situation, and as far as I could tell, was not attending to matters nearly pressing enough for the pilots to refuse aid to one in my predicament.

I raised my small voice in a hopeful plea, calling over the howling of the wind for the plane to aid me in recapturing my balloon. I assured it, quite eloquently, that the task would not cause a significant inconvenience to it, and that it would bring me a great deal of happiness.

I went so far as to describe to them how one might go about the airborne securing of a red balloon traveling south by southwest at seven knots, although myself no great aviator.

For some reason that I cannot fathom to this day, the plane acted as though it was unable to hear me. It continued its flight high above us, completely unmoved by my display.

I shouted again, this time straining my small voice to its very limits. After continuing this effort for a period of nearly thirty seconds, my pleas were reduced to hoarse whispers and I could do nothing but watch that plane fade slowly into the distance.

There is no pain to equal that felt upon the failure of a renewed hope and I, devoid of any optimism, slumped to the ground. I could not understand how such cruelty could exist in the world. Had I not informed them of my plight? Had I not gone so far as to describe a course of action to them? I had surely made my own pain evident, but they had ignored my pain like the monsters they were.

And my balloon was still placing ever greater distances between itself and me.

It was then that my father began to display signs of displeasure so overt that even a child such as myself could recognize them. To lose a balloon was sad, he admitted, but one must be brave and find a way to move on in life. Furthermore, I was acting in a manner unbefitting of one as near to big-boyhood as I, and should attempt to forget the balloon.

I listened to his words and considered them carefully. I was forced to admit that in his many years of life my father had surely encountered a greater number of red balloons than I, and was therefore better able to assess the situation. He was, however, asking something of me that was rather unrealistic. A red balloon, especially one as dear as my late balloon, was not soon forgotten. Its mark on me was profound and far reaching, and I was not able to dismiss it from my memory as casually as my father would have me do.

A second plane appeared, and I considered it warily. I had become rather jaded in my view of airplanes, and could not readily devote myself to a new hope so similar to my recently dashed dream of a winged savior.

It would, however, have been a disservice to my lost balloon to forgo even a token attempt at a second rescue, I concluded, and I again raised my voice in a pitiful wail. Resentfully, I observed a reaction identical to that of the first plane.

Totally dejected now, I sat myself upon the ground and lost myself in reminiscences of the happy times that had been so violently wrenched from my grasp only minutes ago.

It occurred to me that I had been wrong in thinking the planes readily available for the aiding of distressed individuals, and that they had carried on, not out of cruelty, but out of a pressing need to be somewhere other than above that accursed parking lot. Upon establishing this fundamental concept, I was refreshed with new hope. If I could only find another entity, as capable of flight as a plane, but lacking in that irritating self-importance I had so recently observed in my airborne tormentors, then surely this entity would aid me in my quest for my balloon.

I therefore began to sift through my recollections in search of anything I had recently encountered that fit such narrow constraints. For a moment I entertained the idea of assembling a veritable host of balloons and using them collectively to fly off in the direction of my beloved lost sheep. My better sense soon robbed me of this possibility, however, for I realized a serious flaw in my plan. If I had been right in thinking that my balloon was off to a better place, and if I were to put more balloons in a position to attain that paradise, then they would surely fly to that land with all possible speed, refusing any attempt I might make at steering them.

If this were true, then I would be unable to return to my father once I had secured that lost red balloon, but would instead be carried many miles to the land of inflatables. Despite supposing idly that the land of balloons would be an enjoyable place to visit, I was forced to conclude that I would miss my parents and my home terribly. Also, quite apart from bouts of homesickness, I would be subjected to the insatiable hunger that forever plagues the human race. I had no assurances that, if balloons ate at all, they required the same variety of sustenance as my kind. A fine thing it would be to, in the hour of my successful recapture of that woefully departed red balloon, find myself dying of starvation.

No, what I required was the services of a bird, and flying one, no less. I searched about me in a fruitless attempt to find a lark or a dove whose services I could commandeer. What I found was a nest. I was not exceedingly familiar with the habits of nests, but I found this particular nest to be rather as rude as the planes had been. It had been placed upon a lamppost, and for some indefinable reason taken this as some sort of encouragement to loftily ignore all the happenings, and distraught young boys, around it.

Laughingly, I realized that my enemy had underestimated me considerably, and left itself vulnerable to an age old tactic that I was now in a position to execute. I would climb the lamppost.

In my own defense, I should say that it is not an easy thing to climb a lamppost, for they are, most unhelpfully, devoid of branches or handholds. I was ever scrambling four feet up, infuriatingly out of reach of the nest, and then sliding resignedly back to the earth with a morose sigh. I did finally triumph over that difficulty, however, and found myself face to face with the nest. Would you believe that the nest's inhabitants, even at this point, refused to acknowledge my existence? I studied the nest for a time, but my hands were becoming quite tired. If it is a difficult thing to climb a lamppost, it is just as difficult to remain at the top of one for an extended period of time. Luckily, after four or five minutes, I discovered the contents of the nest. I removed two blue eggs and, with a certain relief, allowed myself to drop to the ground, breaking one of the eggs upon my landing.

Before I was able to consider my findings, my father was upon me. He had reached the limits of his tolerance and had made a grab for me that I was only able to avoid through an unusual quickness of both mind and movement, if it is not overly immodest of me to say so. I knew my father could have no grasp of the magnitude of the events now unfolding, and as I fled from him, I forgave him for the betrayal that he had unknowingly committed. His body, withered and weakened by passing years, was unequal to my own, and I soon outdistanced him and found leisure to examine my catch.

I discarded the broken egg, for it was of no concern to me. I had only need of one bird. My balloon was not overly large, and certainly docile enough for a single beaked rescuer to subdue.

I have stated that I am not familiar with nests, and it follows that I am not familiar with eggs, except to understand that one uses them to produce birds. I had heard that it had a great deal to do with waiting.

Well, as all the world knows, no being is better suited to waiting than a four year old boy, and I settled myself down to await my young chick. After two or three minutes, however, I began to find myself unequal to the demands of patience. After prodding and poking also refused to yield results, I began searching around for another answer.

By some stroke of good fortune, a pigeon had approached me while I had been preoccupied with the egg. I must admit that I had never been an admirer of pigeons, but in my hour of need I was nevertheless grateful to have found one.

I approached the pigeon and gave a gesture of greeting, to which the pigeon bobbed its head. Everything was going along quite nicely, so I thought it fitting for me to pick up the pigeon and allow us to become better acquainted with each other.

I grasped the pigeon by its neck, this being the only convenient way of holding it, and brought it in front of my face to better examine it. It was at this point that the pigeon became very excited, waving its small legs and flapping its wings quite ferociously. I assumed, as would anyone, that this was the pigeon's attempt at displaying eagerness for my instructions.

I gave the pigeon much the same information I had provided for the air planes, but the pigeon continued to flap its wings and wriggle its grey tail. I had not, until that moment, encountered such a thirst for my words and found myself quite flattered, and dare I say taken with the small bird. I greatly elaborated on my plans, describing even how the pigeon should tie the string about its own leg to ease the transportation of my red balloon and how it should be ever so careful not to puncture my delicate red balloon's sides with its beak and claws.

At this, the bird leaned forward and pecked me good naturedly on the nose, and then, such was its pleasure at my acquaintance, it pecked me on both cheeks, the brow, and the lip.

Happily, I released the bird with my blessing and a helpful toss. The bird appeared to have become disoriented by our conversation, however, and flew off in precisely the wrong direction.

It was then that my father forcibly lifted me from the ground and placed me in the car to which we had originally been returning. What drove him to such extreme action I did not comprehend, but a day later all of my worries were put to rest. As he explained it to me, he had been wandering the streets in his endless attempts to find my red balloon and had, most extraordinarily, found it in a local shop. Not only had my balloon managed to find its way back to me, but it had also managed to re-inflate itself to some degree, returning rounder and more buoyant than when it had left.