New Years Pay It Forward

New Years night, the wee hours after, actually, I got the dreaded phone call. My neighbor, George, who lives up the hill a bit. Eighty three years old, more than 50 years as a pilot, loves planes and horses, has two. Wife dead, keeps the place immaculate. He, sneaky guy, bought me my first two hours up in the air, knowing, I swear, that it would be enough. 'I'm in trouble," he says to my groggy, 2:30 AM ears. "I'm having trouble breathing." So I bolt into clothes, downstairs. To find three inches of snow, coming down hard. Lovely. Jump into the truck, slither up his 1/4 mile driveway and miraculously did not slide off the narrow place and roll. I take one look and do 911.

Long story short, Clackamas Fire arrived quickly in spite of the snow, he ended up in the hospital, (although the ambulance had to do three runs at the top of our street to get out and nearly took out the fence corner on the SE side). He will get a new heart valve, and his doc, a pilot (of course) says he can even pass his FAA medical after. Everything will be fine.

It matters to me. Well, George is a very nice guy, he does the Right Thing no matter what anyone else on the planet might think about that. And if I'm ever in a plane in trouble, I want George in the cockpit. He'll consider the options, make the right decision, and get everyone down in one piece if it's at all possible. If it isn't, he'll still be trying when it hits.

Partly, it's that he, like me, lives alone, has acreage and animals, is very independent. He has no family this side of the Rockies. And doesn't like to ask for help.

Sigh, there but for thirty years go I.

So I'm feeding the horses, mucking the stalls, letting the dog out and I'm really glad that George is coming home. Pay it forward. In any way you can.