Michael had enough work for one week. We both toiled all day on the 4th of July, therefore, he suggested that we go play tourists in St. Augustine on Saturday. Touristy the town is, but in a campy, enjoyable way.
We missed the turnoff from Rt. 207. As we looked for a turnaround, we passed this extraordinary sight of old airplanes in an overgrown lot fenced in with six foot high chain link. I don't know a thing about planes, but I was overwhelmed.
Peeling paint, missing parts, wings folded back over the body - the scene was eerie, compelling and ghostly. I felt incredible compassion for these neglected behemoths.
There are lots of horse-drawn carriages pulling tourists around St. Augustine. My reaction to the planes was akin to recognizing a thoroughbred in harness, dutifully performing a day's work. There's no mistaking the fine featured head and long slender legs.
“Yet call not this long life; but think that I Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?” - John Donne