Dear Mom,
May 17, 2022, is a day I won’t soon forget.
After two-and-a-half hours, I left your bedside for the ride of a lifetime aboard the B-29 “Doc.”
Strapped into one of six gunner seats as the engines started up, the message I expected arrived.
“Ben, I don’t know if you’re up in the air right now or not, but I need to let you know that your mom has just now passed away…I was here in her room, holding her hand as she took her last breath and slipped away.,.😢”
I thought I was ready, Mom, but that message still hit me like a ton of bricks. More than a few tears fell as my head dropped.
As we taxied from the ramp to the runway, I had a few moments to gather myself.
I am certain I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment.
Among the many lessons I learned from you and Dad was that life is to be lived. And that was what I was doing.
On May 16, I received an email from Ted Huetter at the Museum of Flight at Boeing Field in Seattle. Was I interested in a media flight on Doc…tomorrow?
Mom, I have to admit, I did pause for a few moments. But your voice, the voice you had before it became muted by dementia, rang loud and clear in my head.
I replied to Ted with gratitude and excitement at the opportunity. I’d see him May 17.
As you know Mom, the publishing world is not for the faint of heart, but there are a few perks along the way. And this was one perk I could not pass up.
Honor. Educate. Connect.
That is Doc’s mission.
You would’ve enjoyed the entire experience.
Doc is one of just two airworthy Boeing B-29s in the world today. It is owned by the non-profit Doc’s Friends in Wichita, Kansas.
As crew member Josh Wells briefed the passengers before the flight, he mentioned that Doc serves to honor the brave men who flew her and the incredible women who built her.
I can see you grinning, with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, at that comment.
Doc took 16 years and more than 400,000 hours of volunteer labor to rebuild to flying condition.
As we flew around Puget Sound for 30 minutes, we were allowed to unbuckle and crawl around to marvel at this machine and, as Josh put it, honor those who flew aircraft like this into battle.
In addition to thinking of, and honoring those brave warriors, I couldn’t help, of course, but think of you. Had it not been for a decision you and Dad made more than 50 years ago, I wouldn’t be onboard Doc.
The purchase, in 1970, of what is now General Aviation News and the following decades is what made it possible for me to be in a position for Ted to email me in the first place. No General Aviation News, no ride on Doc. Simple as that.
You see, Doc’s Friends sell ride tickets, and they are tough to come by — and expensive. All seats for all flights while Doc was in Seattle were sold before the B-29 even entered Washington’s airspace.
If you happen to be reading this letter, and aren’t my Mom, you have a chance to see — and maybe ride on — Doc throughout the remainder of spring and summer. Check the Doc’s Friends website for more details.
Dementia and Care
I know the last five years of your life weren’t what you wanted or expected. I’m sorry for that.
Dementia took its toll on you, on your memory, and on your ability to understand. Even simple things like “what would you like for dinner?” became a struggle for you.
But one thing you never forgot and were never confused by was vanilla ice cream. You could’ve been in the midst of a horrible day, but when a scoop of vanilla ice cream was placed in your hand, all your struggles melted away for those few moments.
As I’m writing this, it has been one week since you died. Like I said at the start, I thought I was prepared. Dementia made it so you only recognized me about half of the time. But you not being here any longer, that’s going to take me some time to process.
And that’s a good thing.
The lessons I learned from you I will treasure for the rest of my days. But one stands at the top of the list at this particular moment as it is so fresh in my memory.
You updated your healthcare directive in 2014. And you made certain I understood your choices. While not easy, that simple document made my job of sticking up for you easier. To the doctor who was incredulous that I would not allow treatment, I simply replied, “this isn’t my decision. I’m honoring the choice of the person who made them.”
Again, if you aren’t my Mom, and you are reading this, please do yourself and your loved ones a favor and make certain your medical wishes are known. Here’s a great resource.
There is so much more to say. I am so proud to be your son.
Thank you. And I miss you. Godspeed Mom.
If you feel moved to make a contribution in Mom’s name, Women in Aviation would be a great place to do so. Go to WAI.org/donate and type Mary Lou Sclair in the “In Memory of.”
Dear Ben,
So sorry for your lose. That is a beautiful tribute you wrote to your mother.
Wishing you and your family healing and peace.
Your mom and dad are so proud of you.
Rachel
Ben,
Read your GAN emails daily. Learned to fly in high school.
My Father was a Green Sheet subscriber from 1973-1982.
Was moved by your tribute to your Mom that arrived today
A lady I considered a 2nd Mom died just over two years ago.
I penned this for her family recently.
Tears may flow but I will not weep.
Lorraine Brinkman would have celebrated 99 years on this earth on June 10.
As we reconnect with family and friends after the past two years of isolation and chaos…remember to pause for a moment and raise a glass, share a quiet thought or memory and say prayer for a woman whose presence truly made the world a nicer place to be.
“WHAT IS REMEMBERED LIVES”
#LBM June 10, 1923 – April 8-2022
“What’s remembered, lives” comes from the movie Nomadland.
It’s a beautiful and very touching stand out quote from this incredible film.
The main character Fern, played by Fran McDormand, describes how she keeps the memory of her late husband alive and this seems to sustain her as she navigates an often-unsettled way of being.
Nomadland offers an intimate yet devastating look at Fern’s life as she copes with losing everything. “I’m not homeless, I’m just houseless,” Fern proudly declares, touching upon the materialism which is deeply internalized in Western culture. We are posed with the question: “Is home just a word, or is it something we carry with us?” Wise and practical, Fern and her fellow nomads carry only the most essential items with them, the majority practical, but a few very precious and of great sentimental value.
By joining Fern on her spiritual journey, we are reminded of the important things in this life: simple pleasures, friendships, memories. Nobody can say for sure what happens when we die. But one thing is for certain…the ones who love us will always remember us.
One of the really tough things about when someone dies is that they take a part of the future with them.
This is why it is so important that you are able to carry them forever in your heart and future by remembering them and treasuring the memories that exemplified your lives together.
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Over the 25+ years since my Mother’s death on December 12, 1996, I learned the highs and lows never went away but they did get closer together.
One of things I’m the proudest of in my life was the care and time I gave her after my Dad died on April 13, 1982. She had the dignity of dying at home surrounded by her children.
She was cremated and her ashes divided amongst us 3 kids and two close friends.
In June 2001, I brought my share of the ashes back to her Mom’s grave in Inkster, North Dakota, bringing her home so to speak.
I reserved a tablespoon of the cremains, poured them into my putter shaft and regripped it.
She has played every round of golf with me since.
I’ve made some pretty long putts over the years, go figure?
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This story speaks of waves, as a metaphor for grief and the scars that are left behind.
I’m hoping it may bring solace in those times you feel triggered.
Though not the anonymous author of this, the writing style is reflective of mine.
I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not.
I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, dad, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents…
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too.
If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
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My best friend of 50 years died unexpectedly in his sleep at age 67 May 9, 2022.
Remembering him is easy, I’ll do it every day.
A thousand words won’t bring him back so this is what I have to say.
He left this world as easily and as gracefully as he had lived within it.
How lucky we were to know someone that makes saying goodbye so hard.
Be the things you love the most about people who are gone.
Every once in a while, a poem is so well constructed, so clearly conveys the authors meaning and is so precisely expressive that it becomes something of an anthem.
Epitaph, written by Merrit Malloy, is one of those poems.
When I die
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother or sister
Walking the street beside you
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give to them
What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.
Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live in your eyes
And not on your mind.
You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands
By letting
Bodies touch bodies
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away
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Teardrops came easy today.
Greg reached the end of his road May 9, 2022.
His family cried, we cried. We grieve, as we continue doing.
A surprise ending from a death in a manner that most of us desire, but will rarely be granted.
One day the end will come for me, too. The physical one.
The end that will result in a sunrise that doesn’t include me climbing out of bed to irritate or entertain those around me.
But that’s not the only ending I will experience. Nor is it the only ending you’ll experience. There are so many for us to consider. Many we can prepare for, if we choose to.
Our time on earth can be viewed as an ongoing set of choices.
Each marking a fork in life’s path.
Hence, a great paradox… We can choose, or we can choose not to choose.
In either case, we will have made a choice.
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BE KIND AND LIVE LIFE
LIKE IT’S A RIDE AT THE FAIR
EXCITING-SCARY-FAST…AND YOU CAN ONLY GO AROUND ONCE
YOU’LL HAVE THE BEST TIME TILL YOU CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE
THEN IT SLOWS DOWN AND YOU SEE SOMEONE ELSE WAITING TO GET ON
THEY NEED YOUR SEAT…
REAL ANGELS ARE THE PEOPLE AND ANIMALS AMONG US.
–Ricky Gervais/After Life S3 Ep6
Found a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye that says what I want to say.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn’s rain
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft starshine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die
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Greg’s 50-year friendship will be remembered as one the highlights of my time on earth.
I was blessed to have had him open his life, heart and home to me.
I go to bed with a smile on my face every night knowing that my time with Greg was part of my karmic fate. The cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished in one incarnation according to that person’s deeds in the previous incarnation…fate; destiny.
Good or bad emanations felt to be generated by someone or something:
The endless recreation of life in obedience to the moral necessity.
It’s a process of action a reaction that never ends.
————————————————-
In a COVID culture that’s learned to live without hugs,
I’ve come to treasure my last one from Greg on February 1, 2020.
Had just dropped him at the Palm Springs airport after 10 days of golf and good food.
Have actually started a list of the people I miss hugging and smile thinking about them and when that will be considered acceptable behavior again.
I’m not planning on living to any great age. I can never work out why people want to live so long. I’ve enjoyed my life enormously, and I’m continuing to enjoy it, but I can’t help but become aware of death, and I’d be pretty insensitive if I didn’t.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to follow his journey into the light and look at society from above.
I wonder what his thoughts would be in describing the world that has become us.
Politics, elections, racism, pandemics, face masks, mass shootings and more importantly the abuse of humanity.
Everyone is indistinguishable in those silly masks.
Why is no one smiling anymore?
Perhaps it’s to hide their shame…
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Letting go is an important part of life.
Cathartic is a great word to describe the feeling of this psychotherapeutic process.
Writing things like this are done as much for Greg’s family & friends to take solace in their grief as it is for my benefit. Grieving motivates the bard in me.
Pain, like secrets, can only control you if held within.
There is no death only a change of worlds.
When someone you love dies, you never quite get over it.
You just slowly learn to go on without them.
There is no closure. Grief is the price you pay for love.
Something at some time will carve the wound wide open.
Mourning is just another word in the dictionary until death invades your world.
Recognizing no borders, it becomes a way of life. You don’t get over it, you just get used to it.
There is no timeline for grieving. You can’t rush it. You will grieve, in some form, forever.
People will try to say what you should and shouldn’t feel. Ignore them.
The process is about not only about living with the loss,
but getting to know yourself as a different person.
There will always be regrets. No matter how much time you had, you’ll always want more.
Nothing you do in the future will change your love for the person who died.
Eventually, life becomes full and enjoyable again.
How you conduct that life moving forward and honoring their memory will become what people remember you for.
See you on the first tee my friend.
All the best.
FRED ROSE
Met your mom and dad when they stopped by the New Braunfels Municipal Airport. I seem to remember a pink airplane, possibly a Beech Travelair. They met with our (ECI) CEO Gary Garvens and me, and we were blown away by them. What a couple! We so enjoyed their visit. We pray for you and your family during this time of loss.
🙂 It was a pink, white, and black 1973 E-55 Baron. Thank you.
Ben,
It’s obvious that your parents were a blessing to you, as you were to them. Having read your earlier piece about foregoing flying to take care of your Mom, and talking to you on the subject of “being there” for our loved ones, I know how much she meant to you and how seriously you took your responsibilities as her son. It is bittersweet to know that we did all we could for our parents, as we became the adult and they became the child. I’m sure she appreciated how much you were helping, and treasured your just being there. Your stewardship of General Aviation News is a tribute to your parents, and stands as a model for all. God bless you and your family, and I hope to be able to buy you some vanilla ice cream when we meet again.
Best,
Jim Roberts
Ben,
So sorry for the loss of your Mom. Rest assured she is with your Dad and watching over you and Family. They were so welcoming to me in the early years and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing and being with them at various shows. Both were very friendly and easy going that you couldn’t help but enjoy their company.
Remember all the good times as they will carry you through this time of grief and sorrow.
It is never easy on the ones left behind. We just lost a dear Friend on Monday.
Godspeed Mom.
Ben:
What a lovely article in tribute to your Mom. I’m so very sorry for your loss, Ben. It’s true, we are never really ready when it’s their time to go home. I believe she is with your Dad now, free in spirit and mind. Our loved ones never truly leave us, but it will sure be wonderful to see them again one day. Take care, my friend. Hugs to you and Deb.
Thank you for sharing those compassionate words, Ben. Your mother and father were extraordinarily welcoming to me many years ago and I enjoyed their company on many occasions afterward.
Lou so often expressed that mischievous smile you mentioned and I can bring it up in my mind’s eye in a flash. It makes me smile just as your Dad made me laugh (often with his pun jokes). Both were such a pleasure to know and through them, you and your sister.
My life has been greatly enriched by knowing the Sclair family over the decades. Your pain in loss is heartfelt but you are joined by many of us who will miss your Mom.
All the very best to you and your family Ben!
Rest in everlasting peace, Lou!
Dan Johnson
Ben, what a beautiful tribute. Thank you for sharing and best wishes for peace to you and your family as you navigate this loss.
Eternal rest grant unto her oh Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her. May her soul, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen
May God grant you and your family healing and peace.
My condolences to you Sir and those left behind .
Ben, our hearts break for you. She was such an amazing woman, mom, wife, grandma and you were lucky to have her in your life. I know these past few years have been so difficult but knowing that she is finally at peace makes losing her just a little easier! What an amazing tribute you wrote to her! Know that you are in our thoughts as you go through this trying time.
Ben: Your mother was so proud of you & the entire family. She was a wonderful lady who was always with smile & positive encouragement for everyone. Your tribute was wonderful and painted her for what she really was… a true lady. Those of us who had the good fortune to know her will miss her. I’m so sorry for your loss but I know she is in a better place now.
Ben, a beautiful and very worthy tribute to your mom. My sincerest condolences at this difficult time. Keep memories of her close for it is through those that she will live on with you the rest of your life. Godspeed mom!
My heart goes out to you, Ben. There isn’t a doubt in my mind how proud your mother was of you. You are her legacy and a blessing to the world. I wish you the comfort of a lifetime of memories.
Ben:
What a moving tribute, very well said. I think your mom is resting peacefully knowing that you were doing something you loved at the exact moment you received the news that she had Gone West.
Ben, I’m sorry for your loss. And I know both your mom and dad would be proud of your tribute and its tie to aviation, as always. I have many fond memories of your mom and dad and am grateful to have had the chance to know them and you and your family. Blessings to you all during this difficult time.
–Tom
Beautifully written and a wonderful tribute. Sorry for your loss Ben.
Out of all my flight time, I’m most proud of being close at hand for both parents’ takeoffs
Ben,
Beautifully done! Although we’ve all been there, your words brought tears at my own remembrance. You and I share the same parting with our moms, dementia and all. Here’s my good-by penned in a Grassroots column in Feb ’99. I’m almost sorry I re-read it because it occasioned more tears. http://www.airbum.com/grassroots/GrassrootsGoodbyeMom.html
Wow. That is beautiful Budd. Thank you for sharing that link.
Rest In Peace, Lou. Your family’s contributions to aviation are enormous. Having Ben carry on that tradition must have made you so proud. I remember meeting your family in about 1985, when you welcomed us to Tacoma, and helped us find a place to live. Ben was just a teenager then🥰. I remember you shaking your head at Dave’s lame jokes and puns, all the while, loving his sense of humor. You will be missed and you will be remembered.
Ben,
I discovered long ago that you are never ready to lose a parent! Next week will mark 22 years since I lost mine. I was so Blessed to have her run like a freight train until 4 days before her death. I had an in law with dementia, it is so sad to watch and I pray I get the opportunity to go like my Mom did.
You have a wonderful gift. You write from your soul and believing what you write comes easy to the reader. Keep it up!
B
Ben, what a wonderful tribute to your mother. I appreciate the way you wove her story into your narrative of your flight on Doc. I also had a flight in Doc, about 3 years ago in Wichita. My seat was at the right blister, great place to watch the flight from if you can’t be up front. Awesome flight. Also crawled through that tunnel you were seated in front of, as my dad had trained as a B-29 tail gunner and I wanted to see what it was like and honor his memory. Thanks for sharing.
I still talk with my mother every day – 35 years after … the conversations are a bit one-way, but as long as you live, so does she.