I woke up Sunday morning at 06:05. And lay there in the hide-a-bed, packed with wife and heelers, trying to decide if it was time to get up.

A few minutes later my Mom yelled down the stairs, telling me that if "you kids" want to get to the balloon races, you'd better get up. And to make sure my brother was awake as well.

Nothing like being yelled awake down the stairs to know you're home.

Nothing like being called "kids" again, even though you've almost a half century on this planet.

The neighborhood was quiet as we drove off, the sun just then peeking over the horizon. Only sign of life was a man walking his dog.

At the first major artery, we were greeted with a surprisingly heavy flow of traffic. All going the same direction as we. All going to the exact same place.

We managed a parking place on the street just three blocks from the park where the balloons would be launched. And joined the large crowds of pedestrians. A few people were walking the wrong way, and a young woman advised our crowd at the crosswalk that the races had been canceled. Too much wind.

Wind? What wind? There was absolutely no breeze. We continued on. And found the park full of people, but with several balloon vehicles packing up and leaving. True enough, the day's races were canceled. Winds too high at the landing zones.

But the concessions were still there, as were a few of the balloons. The most interesting one was the cow, the British-made mascot of one of the local dairies.

Now, maybe it's just me, but once this thing was up, there was something I just had to check. And yes, the Brits made this cow balloon anatomically correct:

We also had to had to buy some funnel cakes, which I was happy to discover were claimed to be a Pennsylvania Dutch creation. I'm guessing it's just pancake batter dripped through a funnel into hot oil, dusted with powdered sugar. But they are delish, and worth the early morning rise and drive.

And the powerchutes arrived, although a half hour after schedule. You could hear the announcer asking aside if they had partied too hard and slept in, but couldn't hear the stage hand's answer.

Flying perhaps just a little closer to the crowd than their permit allowed:

But the best part of the morning was being near the balloons again. And yes, I brushed my hand across one as it inflated. As did the wife. And we weren't alone in enjoying that sensation: