I believe I may have mentioned before that my father was a pilot; one who was instrument licensed in single engine planes, planes in which he ferried the living in need of immediate medical transport and the deceased . . . but never my mother.  Well, rarely ever.  She had a terrible fear of flying, especially in a tiny little plane with only one engine.  So she usually flew commercial while he flew privately.  And occasionally, I was allowed to tag along.  With him, not her.

On one of those trips, we were returning from the National Funeral Directors’ Convention in Kansas City.  I don’t remember which Kansas City, but it was one of them.  I had purchased a new Doonesbury book, filled to overflowing with Doonesbury comic strips, and a package of peanut butter crackers for the return trip.  So while he piloted the plane (actually, he usually put it on autopilot and went to sleep—a rather scary proposition if you didn’t feel comfortable enough to poke him periodically) I read my Doonesbury book and consumed my peanut butter crackers.  I could do that back then without retching up my toenails.  Not so much anymore.  We were cruising along, minding our own business, when the engine suddenly spluttered … and then died.  Now, before I continue with this heart-stopping tale, there are a few things upon which I should probably expound.

Most single engine planes of the type my father flew were rather loud, necessitating the yelling of any conversations to be held, hence the usual lack of conversation.  And they came equipped with four fuel tanks, one in the body of each wing and one in each wing tip.  My father, being the frugal person he was, would try to drain every last available drop of fuel from one tank before switching to another.  Now, back to our story.

The engine suddenly spluttered and then died.  There was absolute silence in the cockpit.  I stopped in mid-cracker and looked up from my book to find my father fiddling with the controls.  There was the briefest eternity during which nothing happened—then the engine roared to life.  He looked at me with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes, chuckled and said, “Let the tank run dry”.  I chuckled then said, “Don’t let it happen again”.

Even after that, it didn’t bother me to fly with him.  And it didn’t bother me to fly commercial.  As a matter of fact, there wasn’t much that actually bothered me in the way of fearful things, except of course, the dark.  Not much, that is, until I had children.  Suddenly, so many things gave me pause for consideration prior to engaging.  And the older I got, the more things gave me pause and the longer the pauses became.  For a good while, I had difficulty in determining the root cause of all this pausing and then one day it hit me.

I had finally realized I was not immortal.  I was not invincible.  If I continued to fly down the road at my customary breakneck speed, I could end up very hurt or very dead.  Every time I engaged in risky behavior I increased my odds of coming back mangled or worse.  And the longer I live—and the closer death comes—the more I realize that, if I’m not somewhat careful, I will hasten his already imminent arrival.

There are those instances when a fear of death can be paralyzing.  We as human beings reach a point in life where we do begin to contemplate our ultimate demise, but that contemplation does not have to signal the end of all things challenging or adventurous.  Rather, I’m hoping it results in a gentle shifting of priorities, remembering that the decisions we make and the behaviors in which we indulge affect far more lives than just our own.  By adjusting our focus and directing our efforts to the benefit of those around us we can, to paraphrase Mark Twain, live so that when we die even the undertaker will be sorry.

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