Bookends

For the most part aging has been one more adventure in life. Though not totally embraced, it is not being fought either, more like learning as I go and dealing with what changes come up. Some aspects are accepted and some even comforting while others take some conscious adjustment. (I have finally accepted I will never be the heavyweight champion of the world). Other aspects can be very upsetting. One of those is the growing number of people in your life who die. It’s only natural, we are all growing older and a logical extension of that thought is of course we are crowding the end and some of us are going to drop off before others. Working in the news business can make this part of aging extremely upsetting. Three times in the past couple of years I have been editing a story and all of a sudden the name of someone I knew jumped out at me, killed before his time. It happened this week. It is an old joke that we check the obituaries every day and if we’re not in them it’s all good.

It's not all good. Not too long ago, three people I knew showed up in the obituaries within about a week. It reached a point where I avoided editing or reading them any more because I didn’t want surprises like that. Better to go on in the blithe ignorance of believing everyone in your life is still going strong.

Sunday night such a name jumped off the page at me. It was a story about a small airplane crash near McGrath in west central Alaska. A Cessna 207 went down in bad weather and two people were killed. One was a long-time teacher in the Village of Anvik, the other was the pilot, one Ernest Chase. Realization took a moment. Then I realized. No one calls him Ernest.

I had dinner at Ernie Chase’s home in Grayling in 1979. The invitation was a courtesy because he had invited an old friend, the fellow who was flying me along the Iditarod Trail, and I suppose he felt obligated to include me. I remember a very vibrant man never at a loss for words and wanting to make sure I did well in my writing by his brother Ken who was in the race. The meal, as I recall moose was on the menu, and the conversation were a welcome respite from the pockets of Corn Nuts and beef jerky I had been surviving on. After the dinner we said our good nights and I went off to sleep in the light of the main room in the Grayling community hall. We weren’t allowed into the back room because the body of a village elder was there awaiting transport.

We flew out the next morning. I only saw Ernie one more time and I cannot recall the occasion just that it was a surprise and a quick passing in which we only recognized each other and exchanged hellos. Not exactly close friends, but someone you are aware is in the world somewhere and that is somehow mildly comforting. Only now he is not out there in the world somewhere and that is the world’s loss.

Last night a story came up about another small airplane down with two people from Cordova, a town where I know people and have good friends, missing and presumed dead. I couldn’t even bring myself to read the story for fear I would recognize their names.