By Jerry Mack Grubbs
“Better get out the maps Jerry, we need to find a place to refuel,” Bill said. “I didn’t bring any maps. You’re the one who wanted to fly this thing home,” I said. “What kind of a pilot are you to not have any maps on board?” Bill asked. “Look who’s flying right seat,” I said. He laughed. I laughed. There was an easiness between us that had been there from the first time we met.
We were ferrying home an airplane we had purchased together in Houston, Texas. I had gone down first and checked out the airplane and after deciding it was what we were looking for Bill had flown down to meet me. Since neither of us was checked out in this type of plane we previously decided that we would have someone else ferry it back to Salt Lake.
With his customary self-assurance Bill said, “If between the two of us we can’t get this little plane home, we shouldn’t be flying anything.” With a brief checkout from the previous owner, we lit the fire in that little bird’s engine and headed for home. This was in 1987 before the days of GPS and all the fancy navigation devices found in small planes today. We droned along headed in a northwesterly direction that would eventually bring us into territory that would be familiar to us.
We started looking for an airport where we could refuel and purchase a few aviation maps. We thought we were somewhere over southern Oklahoma. When we landed we discovered that we were in Perryton, Texas. We laughed at the idea that we hadn’t had a clue what state we were even in. There was no one at the little airport. The door to the office was unlocked and there was a sign on the counter that said, “Be back in a few minutes, make yourself at home.”
After thirty minutes of waiting, Bill became impatient. He had been pacing the floor since we arrived, looking around the little cluttered office. “Let’s call a cab and go to town,” he said. “What will we do in town?” I asked. “We’ll get a motel and get something to eat. Then we’ll make a plan that will hopefully work better than the one we are following now,” he said.
After being dropped off and registering at the only motel in Perryton, we strolled down Main Street looking for a restaurant. Main Street was also the only street. We certainly weren’t going to get lost. There was only one choice of eating establishments. It was a combination bar and grill. Sliding up to the counter, Bill ordered himself a beer and a glass of milk for me. “My partner here has never been weaned so he’ll only be having milk tonight,” he chuckled to the bartender. I think the comment was meant to embarrass me but I merely said, “If you have very many of those beers I’ll have to do all the flying tomorrow.” Finding little else on the menu board over the bar, we ordered hamburgers and fries. With each beer Bill ordered, he ordered me another glass of milk with the same comment rolling off his lips, “Bring him another milk, he’s never been weaned you know.”
With nothing else to do in Perryton, Texas, we remained in the bar with Bill drinking his tall glasses of draft beer and me sipping my milk. The beer loosened Bill’s lips over the course of the evening and the fact that we were sitting in a bar with me drinking milk became more and more comical to him. He let everyone in the bar know that I was a little Mormon boy from Utah who had never been weaned from his mommy. Such behavior could have strained a less entrenched friendship. But that was almost twenty years ago and I am still not weaned. If he and I were to sit in a bar in Perryton, Texas or anywhere else today, I would still have my milk while he sipped his draft beer. Our friendship wasn’t tied up in a little neat package that required us to strive to be like each other. Our friendship was born of deeper roots. I believe the tips of those roots reached beyond this world and we just connected somehow.
Those roots are still connected and I think of you regularly, Bill McMahan. It isn’t just Memorial Day that brings out the memories but all the times we spent together, looking at ranches for you to buy or flying your helicopter to islands in the Great Salt Lake. I even remember some of the sack lunches we shared that my wife packed for us on our little jaunts of discovery. But I also want you to know that I am still not weaned. In fact I am drinking your share of milk since you aren’t here to enjoy it. I wish you were here but I would still want your portion of milk. I have never tasted beer but I can’t imagine it being better than milk. We were friends in life and we are friends in death. I miss you. I miss your kidding. I miss the easiness in which our friendship resided. Thanks for your share of the milk.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sunday, May 7, 2006
Writing the Book of Life
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Purple friendship bracelets filled a basket in front of the picture of a young man. A statement had been placed next to the picture explaining that Cameron would dearly love to be here celebrating his brother’s wedding day if his life had not been cut short. Cameron was sixteen when he died in a four-wheeler accident. I thought it odd that the first thing you encountered coming through the door of the reception center was a memorial to a deceased brother. We were encouraged to take a bracelet and wear it in memory of this young man. I took one of the purple bracelets and slipped it on my wrist in honor of this young Cameron whom I did not know and also in memory of another Cameron who had lost his life at an early age. I promised myself that I would wear the purple bracelet until I told you my story.
This story began in 1976. Parents are often driven to provide for their children what they longed for when they were children themselves. Although I had not heard the word go-kart when I was seven years old, I felt certain if go-karts had been around in1953, I would have dreamed, wished, and even written Santa in hopeful anticipation of having a go-kart of my very own. I would have been tempted to make a deal with the Devil himself for a go-kart. I would have even agreed to share it with my older brother. In time I did have a go-kart and spent many hours of pressing the throttle and feeling the wind in my face.
There were two limiting factors to my pleasure rides…gas for the engine and mother making sure that I was a well-rounded boy. By well-rounded, I am not referring to things like sausage gravy smothering all the biscuits I could eat. Mom didn’t think it was healthy for me to go through life without a few responsibilities. Gas was another matter. It cost nineteen cents a gallon but that was when nineteen cents was nineteen cents. But a gallon of gas would bring me several hours of heaven on earth. You notice I was careful to not capitalize the word heaven. Mother taught me that there was nothing on earth that could compare to what Heaven would be like. Secretly, I was hoping there would be go-karts in Heaven.
When I became a father, I felt certain that my children would not be able to grow unto healthy adulthood without experiencing wind in their face behind the wheel of a go-kart. I gathered the necessary parts, welded them together and the children began that phase of their education, the burning of fossil fuel, the coordination of throttle and brake, but most important, the sharing what they had with others. The kids of the neighborhood wore out three engines over the next few years.
As the boys discovered girls and the girls discovered hair spray, the go-kart became a relic of the garage, collecting dust and hiding the memories of many joy-filled afternoons. Eventually, I was able to let go of the go-kart and just keep the memories. I found a family with boys young enough to think that girls were yucky. They were excited to receive this well-worn, loose steering vehicle of pleasure. They experienced the miracle of motion that comes to a young boy as he pushes on the throttle and feels the engine rev to life.
On a warm Saturday afternoon as the new owners of the go-kart rode around in the church parking lot next door, neighbor boys waited in hopeful anticipation of their turn to ride. This family was learning to share the go-kart just like my children had learned years earlier in our own neighborhood. Cameron was seven and he had never ridden a go-kart. He put on the helmet, slid down into the seat and one of the older boys checked the safety belt. We will not know in this life what took place in Cameron’s mind that day. He was controlling the go-kart like it was second nature to him. The supervising parents slipped into a relaxed posture and let Cameron enjoy his turn at motorized freedom. Suddenly, Cameron swerved and slammed head on into a concrete curb bringing the go-kart to an abrupt halt. The group of kids waiting for a turn to ride all laughed. The next rider rushed to get the helmet in preparation for his turn on the go-kart. Cameron looked up while still seated and said, “I don’t feel very good. I want my dad.” Within moments he became non-responsive and was rushed to the hospital. Although CPR was administered all the way to the hospital, Cameron was pronounced dead in the emergency room. A later autopsy revealed that the force of the impact had torn the aorta from his heart and he bled to death. Even if Cameron had been riding the go-kart in the hospital parking lot adjacent to immediate professional help, his young life would not have been saved.
A neighborhood mourned the loss of Cameron. A grief stricken family called and asked if I could find a different home for the little go-kart that had brought so much pleasure to our family. Feeling partially responsible for a senseless death, I retrieved the go-kart, proceeded to my shop, sawed it into pieces and carried it to the landfill with the declaration, “This go-kart made by my hands will never bring pain and anguish to another living soul.” No one pointed a finger of blame. No attorney was allowed to classify the go-kart an attractive nuisance. No money changed hands in the form of payment for pain and suffering. Friends and neighbors mourned together. A grieving family buried their little Cameron and sought help beyond this earth to console their aching hearts.
With the bits and pieces of the old go-kart rusting in the landfill, I know that the go-kart is not to blame for Cameron’s death. My having built the go-kart is not to blame. My having given the go-kart to another family is not to blame. None of the “if only” and “what ifs” can bring Cameron back. There will be no future memories shared with Cameron. What had been shared before that Saturday afternoon is the book of his earthly life. We are still writing the book of our lives. Accidents occur. Things change. Yesterday becomes our history. Tomorrow becomes our hope. I hope that we will treasure the moments, value our associations and then when change does occur, the only regret we have is the loss of the opportunity to build more memories.
The little go-kart that brought our family so much joy also provided the forward motion that tore the aorta from Cameron’s heart. Let your forward motion move you toward the most important things of life. No! Not things. Let your focus be toward people, your family, and your friends, even people you never met like Cameron who missed his brother’s wedding but who touched my heart and helped me remember another Cameron. Life is precious. Time is irreplaceable. Our time is our most valuable resource; spend it wisely.
Purple friendship bracelets filled a basket in front of the picture of a young man. A statement had been placed next to the picture explaining that Cameron would dearly love to be here celebrating his brother’s wedding day if his life had not been cut short. Cameron was sixteen when he died in a four-wheeler accident. I thought it odd that the first thing you encountered coming through the door of the reception center was a memorial to a deceased brother. We were encouraged to take a bracelet and wear it in memory of this young man. I took one of the purple bracelets and slipped it on my wrist in honor of this young Cameron whom I did not know and also in memory of another Cameron who had lost his life at an early age. I promised myself that I would wear the purple bracelet until I told you my story.
This story began in 1976. Parents are often driven to provide for their children what they longed for when they were children themselves. Although I had not heard the word go-kart when I was seven years old, I felt certain if go-karts had been around in1953, I would have dreamed, wished, and even written Santa in hopeful anticipation of having a go-kart of my very own. I would have been tempted to make a deal with the Devil himself for a go-kart. I would have even agreed to share it with my older brother. In time I did have a go-kart and spent many hours of pressing the throttle and feeling the wind in my face.
There were two limiting factors to my pleasure rides…gas for the engine and mother making sure that I was a well-rounded boy. By well-rounded, I am not referring to things like sausage gravy smothering all the biscuits I could eat. Mom didn’t think it was healthy for me to go through life without a few responsibilities. Gas was another matter. It cost nineteen cents a gallon but that was when nineteen cents was nineteen cents. But a gallon of gas would bring me several hours of heaven on earth. You notice I was careful to not capitalize the word heaven. Mother taught me that there was nothing on earth that could compare to what Heaven would be like. Secretly, I was hoping there would be go-karts in Heaven.
When I became a father, I felt certain that my children would not be able to grow unto healthy adulthood without experiencing wind in their face behind the wheel of a go-kart. I gathered the necessary parts, welded them together and the children began that phase of their education, the burning of fossil fuel, the coordination of throttle and brake, but most important, the sharing what they had with others. The kids of the neighborhood wore out three engines over the next few years.
As the boys discovered girls and the girls discovered hair spray, the go-kart became a relic of the garage, collecting dust and hiding the memories of many joy-filled afternoons. Eventually, I was able to let go of the go-kart and just keep the memories. I found a family with boys young enough to think that girls were yucky. They were excited to receive this well-worn, loose steering vehicle of pleasure. They experienced the miracle of motion that comes to a young boy as he pushes on the throttle and feels the engine rev to life.
On a warm Saturday afternoon as the new owners of the go-kart rode around in the church parking lot next door, neighbor boys waited in hopeful anticipation of their turn to ride. This family was learning to share the go-kart just like my children had learned years earlier in our own neighborhood. Cameron was seven and he had never ridden a go-kart. He put on the helmet, slid down into the seat and one of the older boys checked the safety belt. We will not know in this life what took place in Cameron’s mind that day. He was controlling the go-kart like it was second nature to him. The supervising parents slipped into a relaxed posture and let Cameron enjoy his turn at motorized freedom. Suddenly, Cameron swerved and slammed head on into a concrete curb bringing the go-kart to an abrupt halt. The group of kids waiting for a turn to ride all laughed. The next rider rushed to get the helmet in preparation for his turn on the go-kart. Cameron looked up while still seated and said, “I don’t feel very good. I want my dad.” Within moments he became non-responsive and was rushed to the hospital. Although CPR was administered all the way to the hospital, Cameron was pronounced dead in the emergency room. A later autopsy revealed that the force of the impact had torn the aorta from his heart and he bled to death. Even if Cameron had been riding the go-kart in the hospital parking lot adjacent to immediate professional help, his young life would not have been saved.
A neighborhood mourned the loss of Cameron. A grief stricken family called and asked if I could find a different home for the little go-kart that had brought so much pleasure to our family. Feeling partially responsible for a senseless death, I retrieved the go-kart, proceeded to my shop, sawed it into pieces and carried it to the landfill with the declaration, “This go-kart made by my hands will never bring pain and anguish to another living soul.” No one pointed a finger of blame. No attorney was allowed to classify the go-kart an attractive nuisance. No money changed hands in the form of payment for pain and suffering. Friends and neighbors mourned together. A grieving family buried their little Cameron and sought help beyond this earth to console their aching hearts.
With the bits and pieces of the old go-kart rusting in the landfill, I know that the go-kart is not to blame for Cameron’s death. My having built the go-kart is not to blame. My having given the go-kart to another family is not to blame. None of the “if only” and “what ifs” can bring Cameron back. There will be no future memories shared with Cameron. What had been shared before that Saturday afternoon is the book of his earthly life. We are still writing the book of our lives. Accidents occur. Things change. Yesterday becomes our history. Tomorrow becomes our hope. I hope that we will treasure the moments, value our associations and then when change does occur, the only regret we have is the loss of the opportunity to build more memories.
The little go-kart that brought our family so much joy also provided the forward motion that tore the aorta from Cameron’s heart. Let your forward motion move you toward the most important things of life. No! Not things. Let your focus be toward people, your family, and your friends, even people you never met like Cameron who missed his brother’s wedding but who touched my heart and helped me remember another Cameron. Life is precious. Time is irreplaceable. Our time is our most valuable resource; spend it wisely.
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