Pilots are traditionally buried in their uniforms, cap in hands. This is something I learned preceding my step-grandfather's funeral. He had been a lifelong career pilot for United Airlines, something that was fated for my stepfather as well. My entire step family are pilots, both hobbyists and professionals.
Hugh—my step-grandfather—had been a stubborn old man, set in his ways and comfortable only in the role of leader. He had been a pillar of the community, a small-town mayor for 50 years. He was greatly respected. On the day of the funeral, the lawn across from my newly acquired home was filled with planes lined up on the grass, old colleagues and friends coming to pay their respects. The house where he had once lived, and where I do now, is directly across the street from a tiny regional airport in his name. We stood out there in the summer heat as my stepdad called into air traffic control, reporting that his father had taken his last flight. Every pilot in the surrounding airspace radioed back with brief words paying their respect. We looked to the sky.
Small, colorful planes with their propellers still whirring dotted the grass on the sides of the runway. They had come from all across the American Midwest. They had done the same for three decades before that day, only for different reasons, still all coming to visit the same man. Hugh died on July 5th, his favorite day of the year. For 30 years this was the day the whole town along with nearly 100 pilots came out to this little runway to celebrate Independence Day. Hugh hosted a firework show out on the runway of his airport so grand people knew about it all throughout Eastern Illinois. We all agreed that he waited to see one more 5th of July. Nearly 1,000 people would turn up every year, and they did that day just the same.
The service was held at a local church. He always said he wasn’t religious, but kept attending just in case he’d have to get to heaven to see his wife Anita again. I never knew a funeral could truly be a celebration of life until that day.
Friends and family came forward to share all the ways in which he changed their lives. One man came that no one had ever met before. He said how he only met Hugh once and in that conversation he encouraged him to go back to school after leaving prison. He said it changed his life. Another man said Hugh saved his life in a farming accident. Others chose not to speak, opting to silently hand letters containing their own stories of him sealed in envelopes along with tied bouquets of flowers. Our house received over 100 bouquets that we moved to the runway for people to see as they passed by on the interstate.
On the way to the cemetery the funeral procession made its way back through town. The air hummed with stories of a great man. It was cheerful and light, people quietly laughed as friends and family in cars talked and held each other's hands smiling wearily.
There is nothing sad about the natural conclusion to a life well lived. The only tears wept were when we drove through town to be greeted by every man, woman, and child standing in front of their homes with their hands over their hearts. None of us knew this would occur. We knew he was regarded as a pillar of the community and a beloved leader, but something about seeing the effort that the greater community had mustered to show their respect was moving. That was the only part of the day in which I saw my stepfather cry.
The lumber factory in town had an American flag hung over a crane, and all the workers had paused the assembly line and had come outside to salute as the procession went by. It became apparent to me at that moment that death doesn't have to be a tragedy. Death doesn't have to focus on what was taken, but rather a celebration of the gifts life has bestowed. A celebration of the life of a great man, a leader stern yet forgiving, a pilot.
