Clint Eastwood's Super Bowl commercial may tell you that it's only halftime, but today's Detroit sky is grey and bleak. The Southwest Airlines circus paint plane of blue and red looks pale and pasty, burdened with bundled passengers and near-white snow.
It's not Clint's fault the orange vested guy in the cherry picker is frowning. It's twelve degrees out there and he's got to de-ice the plane.
Through the airplane window Detroit doesn't look all Hollywood comeback cheer to me. I don't feel like I'm rushing out of this locker room a future winner. Last half I lost something special; last week I lost my grandmother. Today I'm flying back for her funeral. It's not in my bucket list of things to do before I die, but it is on my list of things I gladly do out of love and respect.
I don't blame Clint I don't blame Detroit. I blame my perspective and disposition. In truth, I didn't see my grandmother nearly enough in life. She lived across country in the humid bug riddled peninsula we call Florida and I lived in the traffic riddled smogfest called Los Angeles.
This isn't a blog about regrets though, although I do regret that Grandma never blogged. The things she could have taught--the lessons I failed to ask and learn.
I do regret that I'll never see the world through her eyes. By the time I realized that my eyes were too undeveloped to see the light, Alzheimer's had clouded her vision.
But this isn't a blog about that.
Like most of my blogs, this isn't a blog about much of anything at all. I know, I'm sorry. You've already read half way through and only now find out that there is no real ending. See? I'm not the only one living with regrets.
I don't know if Grandma lived with regrets. She died with her children at her side. I think that's more than any of us can ask for.
I saw her two Thanksgivings ago. Her smile suggested an ingenue's innocence.
"Have you seen your grandfather, yet?"
"No, ot yet."
"He looks just as young as ever." she beamed proudly.
I couldn't hold her gaze. "I'm sure he does." Grandfather died over twenty years ago.
Grandmother lived her final days in an era where her young husband loved her and they lived with nothing but time playing out in their future. Maybe I'm just romanticizing. I wish grandmother had met my young bride-to-be: the Pirate Queen. They would have liked each other.
My queen couldn't make this trip. Some flights we make on our own. The guy next to me, he's got his wife and three kids ahead of him. No really, his little girl is sitting in front of me, watching over the back of her seat as I type. Everybody say "hi!" She just giggled and ducked. She's a cutie. This is the beginning of her flight.
The boy isn't so cute. He's screaming right now. Not everybody gets the same thrill.
I guess that leads me back to perspective and disposition. Leaving, Detroit looked worn and beat, but coming back it'll mean coming home So, despite the clouds, I'm doing ok. The plane will reach 10,000 feet soon and there I'll see endless blue and sunshine over casting the grey fluff blanket.
As my trip nears the halfway mark I revel in the people surrounding me. We're all making our separate journeys, but we're making them together. The guy next to me has his hands full. He's about ten years younger than I am, but equally oblivious to any turbulence ahead. He'll reach his destination ok. He's going to Disney World.
For me, this trip isn't a Disney day romp, but Clint was right: there is more game left. My future is just as bright and I'm going to see Grandma one more time.
