May 1999
amanovicetotherealmofhotair
ballooning.InthepastI’vesatfroma
distanceand admired theactivity.It brings
a lotofexcitementalongwitha certain
calmnessandtranquillity.Nowjustre-
centlyI’ve become drawntothe activity
mainly because it’s popular and prevalent
intheterritoryofNorthernCalifornia.
I’mnew totheareaandcomefromthe
midwest wherehot air balloons arewidely
viewedascropnav ig atingmach in es,
whichisnotentirelyuntrueandIwist-
fully can relate, for my knowledge in the
fieldisno more than gestures and prose.
Sopleaseexcusemyinappropriatede-
scriptionsofcertainpiecesof hardware
suchasthe“people holder,” or “thermal
propulsiondevice.”
What brought me to attend one of my
fewb allo onexcursions?Thean nual
“Blessing of the Balloons,” in Yountville
ofNapaValley.Anytimeaballoonis
blessedIthinkleavessomethingtobe
desired and probably shouldn’t be passed
by.So I found myself eagerly awaiting the
balloons goodfortune withinthe lovely
outbackofCalifornia’swinecountry,
Napa Valley.
Itwasagloomy,overcastmorning
witha coolyetcomfortable 53degrees.
The clouds had hinted rain here and there
andwere thenleavinga lightsprinkle. I
waswaiting inthe parkinglot where the
blessing, in conjunction with a “Mustard
Festival,” wasto take place.
Shortlya truck andtwo vanspulled
into the lot each pulling a “person holder.”
They noticed the drizzle and began cover-
ing the “people holders” with a blue tarp.
I wasn’t toosure if these menwere actu-
allytheaviationcrew,or justpreparers,
beingundertheassumptionthatflight
schoolgraduatesmayreceive somesort
of honored jacketother thanthe Raiders
or 49er’s.I cautiouslyapproachedthem
andasked,“Isthistheblessingofthe
balloons?”
“Yes that’sright,” one replied, “and
it’lltake placerighthereintheparking
lot.”
At first I thought he was kidding; the
lotwassosmall,morelikeaone-way
erswithmaybeawaterfallandancient
architecture.Oneoftheotherssaid,“I
thought you were the Padre for a second.”
“Nonot quite. Tell me, do youguys
fly the balloons?”
“Nowe justset ‘em up.”
“Really?”Theywentontoinform
meoftheconsequencesresultingfrom
flyingballoonsintherain.Thewater
seepsintotheequipment,whichcauses
moldandthusbringsthemtocleanit.
Theyspeedily putup the tarp.
Thesprinklingcontinuedandmore
people began arriving. Car after car they
came, some staying in and others forming
umbrella chat circles. A few found them-
selvescuriouslyexaminingtheresting
equipment. Anew vanarrivedpullinga
“peopleholder”andwasquicklytarped
before everyone’s eyes.
After a few minutes of chatting with
umbrellacirclesitbecameevidentthat
balloon conversations can only go so far.
Everyone seemed to know each other (the
balloon club?) and I began to feel uneasy
receivinglooksof,“Who’sthis?”and,
“Where’s your ballooncard?”
There was hope the rain would cease
andeveryonestoodwaitingandwatch-
ing. I somehow stumbled across theenter-
tainment preparing in his van. Tim Betty,
the bagpipe player, dressed infullattire,
theberetwithtassels,shirtwithvest,
shortswithkelt,andsockspulledup.I
couldsensethatheneededhisfewre-
mainingmomentsofcolloquialinspira-
tionwithhis stateliness, so I let him be.
The sprinklingmiraculouslypassed
and the ceremony was quickly underway.
Oneballoonwasinflatedandeveryone
gathered round. Very largeit was, colored
hot pinkwithwhite stripes.A midstthe
crowd was the balloon blesser Ro Solas, a
nativeAmerican that reigns from the area.
Histwochildren,aboyandgirl,both
aboutthirteenwere withhim.Solaswas
dressedin all black, from the cowboy hat
down through his trench coat to his boots.
He held in each hand the blessing tools. In
one was a large hawk wing, and the other
held a torch of sorts that looked like a very
handrolledcigarette.Hebeganto
bless thechildren.With thewing,he tapped
theheadfirst,thenshoulder toshoulder
andsidetosidedowntothefeet.Then
with the cigarette meant for Sean Penn he
waved it across the whole body front and
back.Boththe kidswere uncomfortable
with the growing attention from the crowd.
“Ohlook,there’stheblesser,he’s
warmingup.”
“Mommy, I’m scared,” a small child
said.
Justthen,appearingoutfromno-
where came Tim and his bagpipe march-
ingfromthe other endof the parkinglot.
Whenhe finally nearedclose enough the
crowd divided as he went straight through
towardsthe balloon. His songended and
applause rang out; whichis still mysteri-
ous tome why, hewasjust horrible. An
awfulringingnoisestirredprominently
behind hisnotes whichwere missedand
stumbledover.This wassome 96hours
after St. Patrick’sday soit may nothave
beenhis bestwork.
The balloon was nowat its maximum
circumferenceandthehoststoodona
platformtoaddressthecrowd. He man-
agedtogeteveryone’snameandcom-
panywrong(aspointedoutbythem)
before introducing RoSolas.
Solas quietly stepped forward through
anapplauseandbegan.Hethankedhis
ancestors for the land they once held here
inNorthAmerica,grandfatherforthis
day,thisblessing.He mentionthegood
fortune of around-the-worldballoon fly-
ingcrewthatrecentlylandedinEgypt,
and thenreminiscedabout growingup in
thearea.Heblessedhissononcemore
beforethecrowd,finishedandsaidit
would be a good time for bagpipe music,
then went tothe balloon.
The music’s turbulence filled the air,
alongwiththe smokefromtheblessing
torch.Theballoonwaseventuallyput
through the procedures and after comple-
tion people eagerly lined up to be blessed.
After a few turns there were some sarcas-
tic,“Youbeenblessedyet?”Butthey
wereovershadowedbytheoverwhelm-
ingenthusiasmofSola’smysticalwing
