The first flying object I remember startled my sense of awe in the late spring of 1979.

I was standing in my back yard having just decided I was board playing in our sand box, not yet knowing which direction to go in next. Just then a big breeze lifted up my hair and blew it into my face. I craned my head upwards as I batted at my face in an effort to clear the hair from my eyes and mouth. Holding my hair pinned back with my hands, I opened my eyes to the sky in time to see the most amazing blizzard of white and pink petals dance above my head in a synchronized waltz. My spirit lifted up, pressing my chest upward wanting to join their dance. It was mesmerizing. The magic of the wind romancing the two flowering crabapple trees that stood as an oasis in our dilapidated North Minneapolis neighborhood was proof enough to me that there was more to life than what the people around here realized. Romance, beauty, magic, all happening secretly in a pocket of filth. And there I was, arms now lifted up, reaching, twirling, dancing with this magic. In a moment, the breeze released its last note of song and was gone. The heat returned as if it had patiently been sitting out on the sideline while wind and petal took their turntheir moment in the sun. My hair fell limp about face and the petals lay dormant, scattered all across the ground, no sign of their recent life and graceful movement. Yet, I knew what I had witnessed and I knew how it had felt inside me to be a part of their dance.