“After signing up for nine consecutive sessions of ‘Time to Tell Your Story,’ the memoir writing class led by Wendy Humphrey, I can say my life has been changed. I entered the class knowing only how to write for scholarly journals. Now I have a memoir in press that fills me with optimism and pride. Hail to CMAP.”

— Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, Class Member Since 2023

The Balloon Ride

Approaching our twenty-fifth anniversary that summer, my husband Irving and I decided to celebrate with a party that would include a ride in a hot air balloon. I had read in the “Town Topics,” the weekly Princeton newspaper, about a local gentleman who would come to your house with all the necessary paraphernalia and take groups of people up about 500 feet, high enough to get a view of the neighborhood. The balloon would remain tethered to the ground so there was no chance of going higher or flying away. The contract covered twenty or so such elevations. It sounded like a fun idea, and certainly out of the ordinary, which we wished our friends and neighbors to believe was our style.

I called the number in the “Topics” and spoke directly to the pilot. Yes, he was a private company; and yes, he had the proper insurance. Since the price didn’t seem too outrageous, we spoke about dates and times. The party would be toward the end of the summer, near our anniversary (August 31), late afternoon-early evening while it was still light outside. There would be a letter of agreement and payment in advance. All was agreed upon and finalized. The party guest list included all the art history members of the coming semester plus a few outside friends. I planned to serve plenty of cocktails and a light, walk-around supper. I sent out invitations, including information about the planned entertainment.

When the day came, I was somewhat shocked to meet the balloonist. He was quite tall and thin and wore a black silk hat, a stiff white front shirt, black tails, and shorts that were black and white striped. Nevertheless, he was quite business-like and more than pleasant and I soon got over his bizarre appearance. He carried the huge, deflated balloon and his other equipment into the wide lawn of our backyard and started making preparations. When the guests began to arrive, I could tell their reactions were going to be quite varied. Some people took their drinks out the back door to watch the pilot at work. Some were rather blasé, pulling faces to imply they had seen all this before. Others seemed too preoccupied to look in the direction of the large, inflating balloon.

Soon the preparations for liftoff were complete. The first couples to volunteer were very excited and ready to climb into the basket. But at that very moment, by good fortune or bad, it began to rain. The balloonist frantically dismantled the equipment. The first couples ran inside, politely swearing under their breath as they sought their second drink. Other guests were looking disappointed. As it began to rain harder, others looked greatly relieved and started to enjoy the party. The balloonist took off his hat and shoes and joined the animated conversation that filled the house. And so the party changed in character, but was nevertheless a great success.

The result of all this enforced change of plan was that we were left with a paid-up but unfulfilled contract. The balloonist (whose name by now we knew was Alex) very responsibly suggested a way to fulfill what he thought we were owed. He suggested taking Irving and me on a real balloon ride. On the next fine-weather day, we would go up one thousand feet and fly for an hour in whatever direction the wind was blowing. He had a chase car (car and driver) that would follow us all the while and, after the balloon landed, would bring us back to our home. This proposition struck us as more than equitable and, although in my heart I was terrified, I could see that Irving was champing at the bit. So we agreed.

Alex returned with his equipment on the next bright and sunny day. We clambered into the basket wearing hats and sunglasses. We heard the swoosh of the great bag filling and watched the flame dance above the gas lamp as it heated the air. Sandbags were dropped, and up we went. As Irving chatted enthusiastically with Alex about the principles involved, I watched the ground recede as we rose higher and higher. Sounds of earth, traffic, and birds faded away, and the localization of scale slowly shifted into my own receding line of sight. Things on Earth were now becoming miniaturized, and the real center of the universe was in the balloon’s basket. We floated up over the Institute’s grounds and the golf course, then over to Alexander Street, the University campus, and on to Lake Carnegie. Over the water the air drew us up a bit higher, giving us a full view of the west end of Princeton and Route 1, the old Brunswick Pike. Irving and I were continually enthralled by the vista, breathlessly pointing out familiar places seen in a new perspective. It was as though time had stopped and, embraced in silence, the swoosh of the gas flame was the only language left in the world.

After about forty-five minutes, the wind shifted and changed our flight path toward the southeast. In a few moments, Alex said it would be best to land before entering the sphere of the three north-south highways that at this hour would be full of traffic. We were floating along somewhere between Route 1 and Highway 130 when he spied an empty patch of ground alongside a big cornfield. He began to pull on various ropes, edging the balloon in that direction, at the same time he was letting air out of the balloon. As we began to descend, it struck me that I had not researched hitting the ground in a basket without wheels. My panic continued to increase, and I cried out, “What do we do at the landing”? Alex roared back: “BEND YOUR KNEES.” As the earth came up to meet us, I grabbed the edge of the basket and instinctively timed my bend with the exact moment of contact. Irving must have done the same. After a bump and a few little hops, we came to a standstill. Alex looked pleased. Irving and I were surprised and relieved. We began to breathe more easily.

But not for long. In a matter of minutes, a huge man came running out of the farmhouse. He was accompanied by a big, black, barking, dog, and he was carrying a shotgun. He was also yelling and swearing malignantly and telling us to get the hell off his property. Alex suavely jumped out of the balloon basket carrying a bottle of champagne. With kind words and great apologies, he offered the wine to the man who would have none of it and kept yelling and waving his gun in the air. When he took aim, Alex leapt back into the basket, handed me the bottle, and began the re-inflation of the balloon. I looked down as we rose; my last vision was of the man still gesticulating, gun in the air, the dog still barking.

Once we were sufficiently high, Alex looked about for another place to land. The nearest open space turned out to be not too far away but on the other side of Highway 130, which was now filled with cars. The flat spot was the parking lot of a roadside filling station. Our second descent was nowhere near as idyllic as the first, but Alex’s expertise manipulated us into what was a fairly tight spot. At least now, Irving and I had become experts at bending our knees. We made quite an amusing sight: a half-filled balloon, three frazzled souls in a basket, among cars, trucks, and even a tractor. Luckily, the station had a telephone and bar. The chase car had lost us after our second take-off, and it took some time to explain our location to the driver. While waiting, we all had a beer and were glad to have it.

At home that night, in reviewing our day’s adventure, Irving and I decided we had gotten more than our money’s worth. We had seen and done things we could honestly call unique. All in all, it had been a bargain. We also agreed that we probably would not be repeating the exercise any time soon.