Ben Sherwood - The Man Who Ate the 747

I owe much to many for giving flight to 747. The record holders in my book include

Chrissy Colvin for inspiration from the very start, and Norman and Priscilla Colvin. Debra Goldberg for pointing the way to Superior. Robin Jonas for 65 and countless wonders, and Virginia Jonas. Kristin Mannion and H.P. Goldfield for sharing their Whimsea. Friends and readers: Julie Bergman, Barry Edelstein, Tiffany Ericksen, Arthur Drooker, Richard Haass, Alan Levy, Susan Mercandetti, Jeffrey Rosen, Gary Ross, Dov Seidman, Dylan Sellers, Stuart Sender, Allison Thomas, and Elizabeth Guber Stephen.

Tom Brokaw, David Doss, and my colleagues at NBC News for indulging my fixation on crop rotation in the midst of war and impeachment. Gwyn Lurie for a big lift at an early stage and the folks at Bel-Air and Junction Entertainment. Maxine Paetro for exalted insights and encouragement along the way. Harriet Braiker for reflections on the heart. Phyllis Levy for the wisdom of a true romantic. Michael Gendler and his team for ferocious advocacy. All-knowing Irwyn Applebaum and unstoppable Beth de Guzman for spirited publishing and editing. Jennifer Sherwood, all-star, for great cheer and care. Joni Evans, incomparable agent and friend, who laughed, then took the leap, and touched every page, and who makes dreams come true.

And finally, my family, Elizabeth, Jeffrey, Richard, and William Randall for what matters most, and Dorothy Sherwood for her relentless pencil and love of words.

I ts late. The sun is setting over the fields. At any moment, Willa will return from her newspaper run. Ill hear the Ford coming up the lane, rattling the way old junks around here do.

I live in the middle of nowhere now, or the middle of everywhere. All depends on how you look at the map. This is where I belong, and I count my blessings that after wandering the world, I finally found my place.

As I write, I sit in a little wood workshed, just a few yards from an old aluminum Spartanette. The fading light touches the photographs on my wall. I prize three pictures above all the rest.

The first is of my friend Mitros Papadapolous. He actually stood still for almost two days without realizing I had left the island of Folegandros. He shattered the world record, earned his place in history, and was kind enough to send me a fine bottle of ouzo when he heard my news.

That leads me to the second photo on my wall. It was taken in front of the Taj Mahal the day I asked Willa to be my wife. Look closely in the background, and youll see some old friends. One balances on a single leg while the other waves the worlds longest fingernails.

The third photograph is from a farmers field. It shows 1,104 people standing next to a red barn and a great gash in the ground, measuring 231 feet 10 inches, the exact length of a 747. These peoplefriends and neighborsfinished the work of one good man who set out to eat a jumbo jet. It took them 8 hours and 41 minutes, every second televised to a global audience of more than one billion people. And I can say with absolute authority that no official world records were broken.

No official world records were broken.

Of course, the truth is different. You see, so many records were broken that summer in Superior, the kind that really count, the kind that never end up in books, newspapers, or on television. A man helped his best buddy build a magic contraption so he could eat an airplane. A woman never left the bedside of a friend in a coma. A boy wanted his sister to find happiness, so he brought the world to her door.

At first, I didnt recognize the majesty in these moments, but then in this age where bigger is always better, people rarely do. That, I think, is the challenge. To know true greatness when we see it. To appreciate it when we have it. To embrace it while it lasts.

And thats exactly what Wally and Rose have done since that day in the hospital when he awoke from his slumber. The two have barely let go of each other and live in rich contentment on the farm. Wally is working hard on a new ideabovine Jacuzzis. Mellow, happy cows, he insists, make healthier cows. So he and Nate Schoof are busy building a prototype in the barn.

Now to the outrageous proposition that began this book: This is the story of the greatest love, ever. You may counter with Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps even your own personal story. And that is precisely my point. Each one of useven mere mortals named John Smithcan claim the record for the greatest love, ever, if we can only cast off our ambivalence and recognize it when we find it, pure and true.

I keep a scrap of paper pinned to my bulletin board, even though Ive long since memorized the words from the Japanese poem:

I have always known
That at last I would
Take this road, but yesterday
I did not know that it would be today.

My old road ended here in Superior, and I have ventured forth on a new path. Ive begun compiling a brand-new book of records. Its not what youd expectGod knows Ill never beat Peasley at his gamebut I dont care.

Im calling it The Book of Wonders, a chronicle of all the amazing feats that go unnoticed in this world, the achievements with no entries in big books, no live shots on television, no roadside attractions. I know an old woman in New York who belongs in this bookshe waters plastic sunflowers every day. It may seem crazy to some, but I know the truth. She cares.

Im looking for real stories about everyday wonders, authentic moments of greatness and splendor around the world, and I welcome your submissions. Ive set up a Review Committeeyou know what I meanand I pledge to answer courteously and promptly.

Perhaps someone has built the Taj Mahal for you, or even eaten an airplane. Or maybe its something smaller but just as exalted. Maybe every night, driving up the lane, a special person honks the horn for you. It doesnt sound like much, but listen closely.

The front door opens and you can hear the hurried footsteps.

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