This was the summer that Jeff buzzed the cottage. His plane would come out of no-where flying low and roar over and I’d go out and wave. Sometimes he’d tip his wings and sometimes would put on a real show; barrel rolls that seemed headed into the ground until Liz and I would cover our eyes. I remember one day the plane seemed as graceful as a ballet dancer as it reached up into the sky and turned and slipped over and down. He’d sometimes come over at dusk with his lights on. One night I was getting ready for bed; washing my face. The plane roared over and the face in the mirror grinned.
I went up with him a couple times; once over the campground where you could see how the ball ground has been cut out of the forest and the roofs of the cottages partly under the trees.
