Julia
Early Wednesday morning before the sun rose, Van and I arrived at a small private airport outside of Ashland. As Van parked his truck and I waited on the tarmac, I was struck with the insignia painted on the side of the Cessna.
Sherman and Madison appeared in large letters that from my vantage point, seemed to be at least six feet tall.
Despite the long wool coat covering my slacks and blouse, lined leather gloves, and boots, a chill ran through me. The sensation wasn't associated with the sub-zero temperature or the wind swirling and blowing loose strands of hair around my face but from something within.
Around me, the small airport hummed with activity as sparse flurries danced in the beams of the tall lights. Workers called out to one another as other planes were tugged by sm
