The other day an old airline ticket showed up in the basement. This is not entirely remarkable; many things show up in the basement. But the ticket sparked thoughts and memories.

I noted, first of all, that this was one of those old-fashioned billets, thin, partially carbonized sheets of paper — so official. There was no QR code, no digital file in a digital wallet. This was a ticket stamped on September 30, 198_, printed on someone else’s paper. On the left side you can see those little cut-out circles that indicate it was brought to life on a tractor-feed mechanism. The top and bottom are perforated. Did I buy this at a travel agency? By calling the airline? I don’t remember.

A closer look revealed that a round-trip from Newark to Cincinnati cost only $121.00 in 1982. I had to do some sleuthing to determine that this was a ticket from 1982 because although both day and month are noted, the year was only stamped faintly along the side and the second digit was hidden.

To determine the year, I flipped through my journals until I found one that solved the mystery. I visited my hometown of Lexington, Kentucky (flying through Cincy) from October 8 – 12, 1982. On October 9, I explained why in my journal:

This morning I woke up to the sound of birds’ wings flapping. Not to bird song but to the soft fluttering of bird feathers. You can hear an occasional chirp if you live in New York City, if you’re in Central Park and can find a place far enough away from the screeching brakes or the low rumble of the A train. But you can never find a place silent enough to hear the delicate flutter of birds’ wings. I came home, among other reasons, to hear the flap of birds’ wings, to pause long enough to listen to the soft sounds of nature, to the faint cries of my imagination. It can’t always sing out over the distractions of the big city. It needs silence and open sky.

All of this from finding a few old pieces of paper in the basement.