Deep in the winter of his long, eventful life, the old pilot dreams of the spring.
You listen to him talk of those sweet days gone by, and it’s not hard, if you’re of a certain age, to see what he sees. So many friends back then, to draw him into mischief. So many pretty girls, to dance in his daydreams. Such a big world, waiting to be seen.
Such a sky to soar in.
One war had finally ended, and another was fast approaching. But for a young man coming from the farmlands west of Phoenix, the great prospect then looming was his first soiree with his fellow fraternity boys out in Tempe. Arizona State University was only a college back then, but already the school had a reputation for its parties.
The young man sensed adventure in the air.
The problem was which young lady to take with him. The girls he usually squired were lively and fun – but they all knew his parents, and his parents knew them. No telling what was likely to happen at the great and coming shindig, but the young man sensed that at least some of it might best be kept from his mom and dad’s knowing, if not their imagination.
A helpful friend introduced him to a young woman his folks hadn’t met. She was prettier than expected, and whatever she saw in the farm boy’s eyes didn’t dampen her willingness to spend an evening in his company. They set out to brave the big bash.
Amid the high spirits of the evening, the young man sipped too much and too frequently. By party’s end, he was in no shape to drive the young lady home … so she drove him. Pulling up at her house, she looked over and saw that he was still half-a-linen closet to the wind. She pulled him from the car, pushed him to a faucet on the side of the house, held his head under a stream of cold water, then staggered him back and poured him into the car. He made it home.
A few days later, he was working in the fields, trying to remember the evening and wincing at the thought of what that pretty young woman must think of him. Some of his buddies swung by and hollered in his direction – they were headed to lunch and wanted him along.
He was bathed in sweat and caked with dirt, but hungry enough to go along anyway. They drove him downtown – stopping, suddenly, in front of the store owned by the young woman’s father. The girl herself, his friends knew, was inside, working. Giggling, they headed for the door, calling back for him to come in and say “hello.”
He could stand pat and wonder what they were saying about him, or go in and speak for himself. He took his fate in his hands and went inside, mud and dirt and sweat be hanged.
When he left a few minutes later, her father commented that if they’d given that young man a good shake, they’d have had enough soil to grow corn in the shop.
Even if he’d heard that, the young man wouldn’t have cared. He was thinking how much he wanted to ask that girl out again. And wondering what the odds might be of a young lady that pretty – having seen him so drunk and so filthy – saying yes.
She said, “Yes.”
The courting was complicated but not dissipated by the coming of the Korean War. A friend suggested that the best way to stay out of foxholes was to climb into cockpits. They joined the Air Force, shipped out to Texas, trained as fighter pilots. The young man soon found that the demands and distance of his new profession kept him far from his girl for long periods of time.
She waited.
He earned his wings, and a reputation as an excellent pilot. And – finally – a 72-hour pass. She had the dress, the minister, and the chapel ready.
She said, “I do.”
Theirs was a crowded lifetime: raising their children, traveling the world. He became a judge, then the mayor of a fair-sized city. They embraced it all together. They laughed a great deal.
Last year marked their 65th anniversary. She contracted the virus. It was serious enough that they took her to the hospital. Under lockdown restrictions, he was forbidden to visit her. Alone, she lapsed into a coma. The doctors still wouldn’t let him come.
A few weeks ago, for the first time in eight months, they allowed him to see her. She was failing. Still in her coma, she never responded to his tender, whispered words of love. When he came back, he brought a recording of some hymns she liked. She stirred a little, but the eyes he’d looked into for most of 70 years never opened.
She passed away last week, and the great hole of the last eight months became a yawning chasm of empty. The winter of his life has grown colder, warmed only a little by the memories.
His wife once told her daughter that she wanted In The Garden played at her memorial service. The daughter asked if she wanted anything special on her gravestone.
Yes, she said: “It was quite an adventure.”
His wife was not the only one to see him at his worst and love him anyway. They both put their trust in a God who sees, and forgives, and saves. And brings sweet breaths of spring to souls besieged by winter’s cold.
Which is why the old man, eyes swimming, cheeks wet, still finds it in his heart to smile. And to gaze, now and then, at the wide, blue sky.
He was such a gifted pilot. He knows what a wonder it will be, one day, to meet his Lord – and his beloved – in the air.
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