“Dad’s home!” I shouted, hearing the low hum of an approaching plane. My mom, sister and I ran out of the house into the yard and looked up at the blue sky, shielding our eyes from the sun. “There’s his plane,” my sister said. We jumped up and down and waved. The plane circled our little white house. The wings tipped to the right then to the left—Dad’s special greeting just for us, letting us know he’d soon be back safe and sound.
I can’t tell you how many times that scene played out when I was growing up. It’s one of the ways I’ll always remember Dad. He was the best father, working as a rural mail carrier so he could provide well for “his girls.” He and Mom had been married 62 years, high school sweethearts who were devoted to each other. If there was anything she, my sister or I wanted, he would take up a side job to make sure he could give it to us. We knew we were loved.
There was one thing Dad did for himself, with Mom’s blessing—flying. It was his passion. On Saturday mornings, he’d head out early while we were still asleep to pick up a friend at the airfield near our house then fly his little Cessna to Ohio for breakfast. He had to have his biscuits and gravy, and knew just where the best ones were! Then every time, on his way back to the airfield, he’d circle the plane low over our house and tip the wings, once to the right, once to the left.
About nine years ago, however, Dad developed heart problems and wasn’t able to renew his pilot’s license. He put on a strong face. “I’ve still got you girls to keep me busy,” he’d say brightly, refusing to let it get him down. In November 2010 another blow struck. Dad was diagnosed with fast-growing acute leukemia. Less than two weeks later he passed away peacefully, holding Mom’s hand. We missed him terribly.
On the day of Dad’s funeral, Mom, my sister, our husbands and I climbed into the limousine and headed to the cemetery. We were almost there when we heard the noise. A low buzz at first, rising to a deep, loud drone. It wasn’t coming from our limo.
We rolled down the windows and craned our necks out. Up above, flying low in the sky, was a small plane. It circled back around, soaring over our heads. Suddenly the plane’s wings tipped—first to the right then to the left—before jetting off into the distance.
Dad was home. Safe and sound.
