The lights from the wing flashed bright in a steady rhythm. As my eyes opened and closed slowly, they were almost hypnotic. I may have fallen asleep if not for the loud noises in my ears, courtesy of an aging, scratched up iPod – the playlist including Iron Maiden, Joan Jett, James Taylor, and my daughter’s favorite Coldplay songs.
The music pulsed in time with the lights, and the jet began to descend.
I was coming home.
As the plane turned to ready for touchdown, the calendar date stayed with me. It wasn’t just the end of another business trip, but also the fifth anniversary of the day my grandmother passed away.
It’s as easy to remember the day of someone’s death as easily as their birth, in terms of importance. Earlier, I had been grateful to be flying above the clouds, and able to view a setting sun on the horizon. Her attitude of gratitude had been passed down, to be made good use of by the family she left behind.
As time passes, you might think you’d start to forget, or begin to experience a more limited influence from one who was here for so many years, but has now been gone for some time.
From my experience, I can tell you that the opposite is true. There were many lessons, most basic and easily executed, on the meaning of your life and how to best live it. Apparently there was enough time to ensure they were fully entrenched.
Her mottos were life is precious and don’t worry, be happy. As with the mottos, the life and the work that inspired them were simple, unpretentious.
She loved to cook more than anything. She would listen to the Yankees on radio or television. Her yard was a sanctuary, where she could look at rose bushes or tend to fruit trees and grape vines.
Coffee, perked in a steel stove top pot, was a mainstay. And unlike her high flying grandson, I don’t believe she ever set foot on an airplane.
She never had to go on a “business trip.” Her business was to make sure everyone was well fed, whether family, friends, or customers. I talk and write about old school. She, and her husband, were the models that inspire the words.
As the plane touched down, I had the same feeling I always have. I was happy the flight was safe and uneventful, and I’d be driving my car from the airport parking garage to go home to my family.
No matter what this modern life promises towards my “fulfillment” (dream house? luxury car? the latest iPhone ?), I know that true fulfillment lies sleeping behind the doors of an old house, just a few miles away.
That’s why, five years later, there can be no forgetting. The influence, instead of being limited, is wide spread. No matter how much I look forward to the future, the echoes of the past are everywhere.
Every day is influenced by what I’ve learned from that great generation. Yankee broadcasts continue to fill summer nights. The coffee is still perked. The yard remains a sanctuary. Even with five years gone.
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