In the almost two years that I have been flying my balloon, I’ve never encountered an irate landowner. To the contrary, I’ve either been heartily welcomed or totally ignored. So the issue of landowner relations has not seemed particularly significant to me ... until last month. Last month I encountered Mr. Kitzman.
I’d been flying for about an hour and a half on that breezy Saturday and having
missed two promising fields, the big green rectangle ahead looked like a great place to
land. I radioed my crew to find a landowner and they were at the farmhouse door as I
began my approach. I got just enough left to keep me out of the adjacent cow pasture
where a herd was leisurely grazing and I executed a nice high wind landing, clearing
the fence and dragging about twenty yards. I stood up and there was Mr. Kitzman,
speeding towards me in a battered old jeep with a hay wagon bumping along behind.
Something about the way he slammed on the brakes let me know he wasn’t happy. I
walked over to where he had stopped, hand extended, and introduced myself. He
looked at my hand like it was infected and told me he didn’t care what my damned
name was. Uh oh.
“Was this an emergency?” he growled.
“Yes,” I didn’t hesitate, “I was getting low on fuel.” (True, I only had fifteen gallons
left.)
“I’m an old Air Force pilot, and I know that you should have planned better!” (I did, I
planned to land somewhere.)
“Yessir. You’re absolute right sir.” (I slipped into a more military mode of
communication, looking for a soft spot in this crusty vet.)
“This is my hay,” he informed me, “I don’t want you trampin’ around in it, ya hear
me?” Loud and clear. (I thought the field was full of weeds, but my agricultural
education is limited.)
“We’ll have this packed up and carried out in no time ... sir.” My crew was walking
out into the field and I gingerly rushed to intercept them lest they crush the hay. Jon
had been talking to Mrs. Kitzman.
“This man is not happy,” I said.
“This lady is not happy,” he replied.
We all tip-toed around the hay, quickly bagging the envelope and carrying it down
the quarter mile of paved driveway to the truck. As we were walking back to get the
basket, I was considering asking Mr. Kitzman if we could at least bring the truck up the
driveway when he pulled up beside me in his jeep.
“If you hurt any of my cattle,” he shook his finger at me (oooo, I hate that), “you’ll
hear from me.”
Take the bull by the horns.
“Let’s go see right now,” I suggested. “I’ll feel better if we inspect your cows and
your fences. I would hate to think I’ve done any damage here.”
He looked at me like I was crazy, then muttered for me to get in.
“What did you fly in the war?” I asked. “Fighters or bombers?”
“B-25,” he scowled.
“Ah, the Mitchell bombers. Jimmy Doolittle’s plane.” I said reverently.
He glanced sideways at me, one comer of his mouth turning up in spite of
himself.
“Europe or the Pacific?” I opened the door a little further.
“Both!”, he barked.
“My dad, too.” Keep talking, Keep talking. (My dad was in the Navy ... that’s beside
the point.)
“I could tell you some stories,” he added.
We talked about airplanes, bomb sights, his cattle and his land. He had 14 new
calves and owned every field I’d tried to land in that day. In the end he called me
Debbie and I called him Sir. He hauled my basket out on the back of his tractor, and I
promised a balloon ride to his grandchildren. The crew and I jumped in the truck and
high-tailed it out of there.
Here’s what I learned from this close encounter with an angry landowner.
“You can stay,” he replied when I offered to leave. “It’s hard to be mad about a balloon!”
Whew!