Balloon Ascensions

SHORTLY before the beginning of the mellow nineties, there flourished what to me was the most thrilling of spectacles: the hot-air balloon ascension, and the ‘death-defying parachute leap for life.’

Always a day or two before the great event, which took place once or twice each summer near where I lived, preparations were painstakingly begun. First of all a trench was dug, usually in the field close to the picnic grounds. This trench was some thirteen feet long. It was wide, and deep enough to hold a flour barrel on its side. The greater part of it was then lined with these barrels end to end, heads and bottoms knocked out, and filled loosely with shavings and kindling. Over this was plastered a thick arch of wet clay and sods. At one end, connected to the last barrel, a clay chimney was built to rise about five or six feet above the ground. At the other end was a pit in which a man could stand to feed the fibre.

On the day of days, — always a Sunday or a holiday, — as near the announced hour as Providence and the weather permitted, the balloon would be carried through the crowd and hung over the chimney on a rope stretched between the tops of two high poles. The large open bottom of the bag would be brought down over the chimney, the folds held away from the opening, and the fire started. Soon, amid the rising excitement, the balloon would begin to take shape. It was potato-like in contour, and built up principally of vari-shaded patches.

The parachute, too, was anything but an object of beauty. It was not the fine, scientifically packed, and securely strapped affair of to-day, but consisted only of an umbrella-shaped top from which hung long shrouds to a short bar, and just below that a trapeze. On this the performer sat. Hanging by his hands or knees, he did a series of breath-taking stunts, both when going up and when falling.

By the time the balloon had begun to expand, the shavings and small wood would be used up, and the man in the pit would set about throwing in large pieces of dry pine as rapidly as he could swing bis arms. Then at last came the moment when I always took a deep breath.

First, the supporting poles and cross rope were dropped to the ground, the balloon being held down by a circle of excited volunteers. The parachute was next attached and the bag allowed to rise slightly, while a man carrying a wooden shield crawled under the edge of the balloon opening and lay flat on the ground close to the chimney. Then, while the crowd backed away a little, the man in the pit dashed gallons of coal oil into the fire. At the right moment, when the terrifying roar began to subside, the master of ceremonies would yell, ‘Put on yo’ covah!’ From the man inside would come a muffled smoke-choked answer, as he cut off the flame. Suddenly the balloon would be released, jerking the parachute upward, the young man with the trapeze running directly beneath so as to be lifted vertically. If he was either too slow or too fast, he would ascend with the whole thing swinging like a pendulum, allowing hot air to spill from the bottom opening, and sometimes causing twisted parachute ropes and difficulty in climbing on to the bar.

The parachute, looking like a closed umbrella, hung on a single rope to the bar, and a knife arrangement with a cord was fastened to this. The performer knew well enough, as a rule, when to jerk the knife cord, but he generally waited until the boss threw back his head and yelled, ‘Cut yo’ rope! Cut yo’ rope! ’

I suppose that loyalty to the old days makes me feel that this alarming cry was often justified. To go too high meant landing too far from the customers and possibly in a bad location. Also, the hot air cooled down so rapidly that waiting too long made it likely that the balloon would fall on the parachute before the latter got to the ground.

Owing to the rough-and-ready inflation method, sometimes the balloon would catch fire. On one occasion, just as the bag started up, all but the performer noticed that one side of the balloon was burning. The crowd, I thought, was a little slow in grasping the full extent of the danger, but I well remember the white drawn face and clenched fists of the master of ceremonies as he held back his cry, waiting until the balloon had got enough elevation to ensure full opening of the parachute before it reached the ground. At last his familiar command burst forth with unmistakable meaning, instantly accompanied by a great chorus of shrieks and yells from the crowd. One quick slash parted the rope, and the chute dropped clear. But the warning had been withheld almost too long, for the flaming bag grazed the parachute, and the aeronaut landed almost at the same moment, and on the same spot, as the blazing balloon.

The thought of going up myself always fascinated me in those early years. One day, when the first stages of the usual ascension programme were beginning, I stood by — one of the ever-present swarm of little boys — and watched the hero of the day lay out the parachute ropes. Presently, looking around at the weather conditions, he remarked casually, ‘Things look pretty good to-day. Maybe I can take one of you kids up with me.’ I headed the instantaneous rush, and the earnestness of my ‘Take me!’ made me the happy choice.

It was Sunday afternoon. I was wearing my best suit, of course, and in those days I was repeatedly warned that ‘suits don’t grow on trees. ’ With the hurried assurance that I would be back in less than two minutes, I left my new friend and sped across the fields into the house and into my football outfit, safely inside the time limit.

Swift as I was, my sister’s bright eyes missed no move. Before I could make the final jump from the back stoop, where I seldom used more than the top step, there came her bring-out-the-guards alarm. ‘Football on Sunday!’ The family’s combined rush caught me practically in mid-air — and all was over.

From the room where I had been put to bed I gazed out to see the balloon rise high in the air, while my own heart sank.