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Past life regression12/21/2023 ![]() ![]() I was surprised to read that James shared my father's birth date in July (although 31 years earlier).īut it was his death date that made my heart lurch and tears sting my eyes. When the first thick manilla envelope arrived from the Smithsonian, I anxiously tore it open and scanned the papers. I immediately mailed inquiries about the pilot to the military archives of numerous museums across the U.S. The caption read simply, "James Allen Joseph, Royal Flying Corps, 1917." (In order to protect his identity, James Allen Joseph is a pseudonym.) I recognized his dimpled smile and the familiar arched brows under a woolen cap that he wore at a jaunty angle over his short-cropped hair. I found a picture of a pilot standing beside a biplane that had taken a nosedive into the ground. I flipped through dozens of WWI books, pausing on the old photos of pilots until, one day, the hair rose again on the back of my neck. This was long before we had access to the internet, so my research consisted mostly of trips to the library. Two weeks after purchasing the mysterious photograph, I was no closer to finding out the pilot's identity. I woke up on bedsheets damp with sweat and knew I had to go back to the restaurant.Īfter My Dream, I Was Committed to Finding Out the Pilot’s Identity Bullets whizzed past my wings as I frantically grabbed the control stick, pressing the blip switch with my thumb until I felt myself falling into a blur of blinding light. That night I dreamt of flying over makeshift trenches that gutted fields of mud and blood. We joked about the photo and went on with our New Year's Eve celebration, but when we returned home, I couldn't get the pilot's intense gaze out of my mind. "Are you okay?" my husband asked as he put his menu aside and studied my face. But when I closed my eyes, I saw a burst of flame, heard the low drone of an engine whining in my ears and smelled the pungent odor of petroleum stinging my nostrils. I thought of Richard Collier's reaction when he first saw Elise McKenna's photo in the 1980 romantic drama, "Somewhere In Time," and assumed it was my writer's imagination that caused the odd tingling at the base of my neck. His penetrating gaze under hooded eyelids. I knew the man in the photograph-the dark, arched eyebrows, thick lower lip and the creases that bracketed his mouth. The noise around me disappeared, swallowed by the sound of my heart knocking hard against my chest. I glance up to see a man in uniform staring back at me.Įverything stopped at that moment. I scanned the menu for a moment before a strange, buzzing sound filled my ears. People were laughing and filling their champagne glasses all around us in anticipation of ringing in the new year. ![]() Tiny blue lights near the landing strip glowed in the darkness to guide the incoming Cessnas on the runway. ![]() The hostess seated us at an intimate table next to a large, plate glass window that faced the executive airport. The Moment That Spurred My Past Life Regression Experience Behind the car was a wall covered in old liberty bonds and American recruiting posters. A staticky recording of George Cohan's "Over There" drifted from the speakers near a battered Tin Lizzie. Musty, wood-paneled walls were decorated with relics from the era: yellowed maps of Germany, France, and England propellers, saucer-like helmets, faded flight rosters on a corkboard and the black and white photos of pilots who served in the Royal Air Force during 1917.įrom the rafters hung the torn wings from a French Nieuport biplane, in addition to rusty railroad lanterns, gas masks and a dented bugle. It was named after pilot Eddie Rickenbacker's famous flight group, the 94th Aero Squadron. A slight breeze ruffled their shredded fabric tops, the exposed bars groaning as if in protest of the passing of time.Īfter entering the building, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit foyer of the old farmhouse that had been converted into a restaurant. When we pulled into the crowded parking lot near an airport runway, I spotted two rusty, canvas-covered trucks that were actual surplus vehicles from WWI. On New Year's Eve 1985, my husband surprised me with dinner at a new, World War I-themed restaurant about an hour's drive from our home. ![]()
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