It’s a beautiful day in Boulder, the sky is so blue I just find myself staring at it, framed by the yellow leaves of autumn, in awe.

So early this afternoon, Mrs. P. and I are in the back garden. I’m in on the bench, with a beer and a book (Bleeding Edge, Thomas Pynchon, 2013) and Mrs. P’s minding the raised beds, harvesting the dried beans, adding compost, getting ready for the growing winter. I hear a sound I know from being an Air Force brat – the sound of fighter jets with the Doppler shift of approach. I look up into that brilliant blue sky and see a F-18 over downtown executing a roll and climbing damn near straight up into the heavens. Mrs. P. is exclaiming amazements,  I’m admiring its assent, when the rest of the Missing Man Formation comes screaming over our heads, no more than a thousand feet off the deck, lower than the mountain foothills just to our west.

We stared at one another for a moment, wondering what the hell was going on. Then I remembered:

Scott Carpenter was honored today.

Glad I saw that.