The rain is, if anything, coming down even harder than it was a few minutes ago. The bench I'm sitting on is covered in puddles, and the stream of water cascading off my umbrella has completely soaked my legs and sneakers. The field where the big event is supposed to take place is quickly becoming a muddy morass, and I can't help but wonder if all 35,000 of us have taken collective leave of our senses, enduring this much discomfort for the long and unlikely chance of witnessing a few wobbly seconds of flight.
But even as that thought registers, I find a trace of a smile creeping across my rain-streaked face. For it occurs to me that there's actually a weird kind of lovely justice at work here. The committee organizing the centennial celebration of the world's first sustained, powered, controlled, heavier-than-air flight had planned a precisely timed, Busby Berkeley-choreographed extravaganza to mark the moment. The event was designed to be movie-perfect, complete with a presidential appearance, marching band, Jumbotron television monitors, a host of carefully orchestrated significant gestures, country and rock concert music blaring through a network of basso profundo speakers and, of course, a re-creation of that first flight precisely on cue, at a moment determined by schedule instead of nature.
Wilbur and Orville would never have been so silly. And while I'll be disappointed if we don't get to see the Wright Flyer fly today, there's a part of me that's okay with that. For the misery we're enduring at the moment is actually far closer to the Wright brothers' real-life experience here than anything the celebration has dished up so far.
Celebrations aren't supposed to be duplications of history, of course. But when I first arrived here on December 15th, I thought perhaps I'd come to the wrong event. The first thing I encountered was a strict security checkpoint with armed soldiers, guard dogs, metal detectors and very serious-minded security folk (a defense line reinforced with a second checkpoint run by armed Secret Service agents on the 17th, when the President was going to arrive). The images of a guarded compound seemed sadly at odds with two innovative brothers bringing a beautiful, fragile craft to the wild, open sand dunes here to pursue the lofty goal of flight.
Passing beyond the perimeter, my ears were then assaulted with loud country and rock music blaring from speakers-speakers that were even balanced upon the granite memorial itself, at the top of the hill. I struggled for a bit to figure out exactly what connection Aaron Tippin, Michelle Branch, or the Temptations had with the Wright brothers or flight. The answer is none, as far as I can tell, unless it's that they've all flown in planes en route to concert performances. But someone evidently saw this event as a big New Year's party, requiring Dick Clark-style entertainment.
Don't get me wrong. I understand why the security was there. And I love concerts, music and dancing. I'd just come here in search of something slightly different. And I was having a little trouble finding it.
The next morning I arrived on site early, in hopes of avoiding some of the crowds and maybe, just maybe, getting enough space and quiet to find some connection with the people and reason we were all here. The exhibit booths weren't due to open for more than an hour, and the crowds hadn't yet arrived. A bright sun and brisk chill greeted me as I whizzed through security and contemplated the memorial, up on the hill.
