Last week I added a surprising new addition to my life’s résumé: hot air balloon crew member. My brother, sister-in-law, husband, and I joined my cousin Mike—a balloonist—at the Rhinelander Hodag Park’s Salute to Heroes Balloon Festival. He handed us T-shirts, pins, or earrings representing Wally, his smiling orange fish. The balloons wouldn’t be flying that day, but they offered tethered rides where people could rise 50 feet. The real thrill, though, would come after sunset during the festival’s grand finale: the glow.

First, however, there was work to do. The crew—a friendly mix of a dozen people, young and old—welcomed us warmly even though the four of us were rookies. Our first task was to spread a giant protective tarp across the grass. Then we wrestled the balloon from its heavy canvas bag and worked together to unroll and straighten it. Mike attached the balloon to the basket. My brother and another crew member held open the balloon’s wide mouth so Mike could blast in propane flames. The heat roared, the colorful fabric swelled, and the enormous fish-shaped balloon—Wally, who looks like Nemo—slowly came to life.

All that teamwork reminded me of my childhood. Mom often mentioned The Little Red Hen, the classic story where anyone who doesn’t help plant, weed, and harvest the wheat doesn’t get to enjoy the bread. Dad, who wasn’t much for stories or analogies, got the same message across by handing us a hoe, showing us our patch of the garden, and setting us to work planting crops such as popcorn. Later, we’d weed and harvest, then shuck the ears by hand. Finally, we would pour the kernels into the popcorn pan, wait for the first pop, melt the butter, and enjoy the aroma. With mouths watering, our hands would reach out for a buttery handful. Working together always made the final treat taste even better.

Being part of the balloon crew felt the same way. After the work came the joy. We settled into lawn chairs as a DJ played music and shared balloon trivia. Many specialty balloons are made in Brazil, and they are quite expensive. Kids wandered from basket to basket collecting colorful cards featuring each balloon. Buttercup the cow was a favorite, and Wally—our smiling orange fish—drew a lot of attention. Mike let children stand in the basket with him and pull the burner handle that sent a blast of flame into the balloon. I watched joyously as their faces glowed with pride.

Between countdowns, the festival had its own magic. Venders sold goodies, children marveled at the cartoon character balloons, and everyone snapped photos and videos of the event. Crew members willingly helped other balloonists and waved to old friends. As the sun sank lower in the sky, strangers and buddies came together, reminding us that we’re all in this big balloon ride called life together. 

When twilight wrapped the park in deep grays, the DJ’s voice rose over the speakers: “Pilots, it’s time to glow. Countdown in five… four… three… two… one! Gloooooow!”

Flames roared. Balloons bloomed with color. Oranges, reds, and golds shimmered against the night sky, reflecting in the wonder-struck faces of the crowd.

We all leaned back in our chairs, letting the warmth and light wash over us. We had worked together, and now we got to share in the magic. Life is often like that—when everyone lends a hand, the reward leaves you glowing too.

(Thanks to Shirley Braatz for the selfie.)