.:: The StrongBrain Collective ::.

My grandfather passed away September 11, 2003, after suffering a severe embolism a week previous. I wouldn't say that I was particularly close to my grandfather as my childhood occurred 3000 miles from where he resided. My early memories include $50 checks every Christmas and making myself scarce when a compulsory holiday or birthday phone conversation was forthcoming. It's deplorable, I know, and a source of remorse, but I truly dreaded those 10 minutes of exhausting smalltalk, and not just with him, but with any and every distant relative with whom I experienced extremely sporadic communication.

But, as an adult, I got a chance to know him much better as a person and found, to my surprise and delight, that we share many traits (I'm going "present tense" here as these traits still endure within me). We both have a wry, sarcastic sense of humor. We both have this congenital ability to make the people around us feel good about themselves. We both suffer an extremely mercurial temperament. We both brood over questions of existence, religion and the universe.

It was because of these similarities that we developed a significant amount of respect for each other. He was intelligent, witty and emotive. I enjoyed his company, and will miss him greatly.

It was then, with great honor and humility, that I was presented with, and accepted, the opportunity to spread his ashes. There was only one way this could be done: from an ultralight.

An ultralight is an airplane (Google will provide you with pictures if you ask nicely.) It's an airplane with no cockpit. It's an airplane with two pedals and a joystick. It can fly highway speeds and can reach 1000 feet above sea level if you push it. It is a kite, in essence, with a seat and a lawnmower engine attached to a propeller. The Wright Brothers flew more complex machines than these things. But my grandfather loved them. One great thing about flying an ultralight is that you can fly anywhere. People have been known to take weeks and fly them cross-country, landing them on roads and in fields. But my grandfather, a well-respected pilot in his club, had a favorite route: from an airport in Camarillo, CA to another airport across this mountain range that had the appearance of a crumpled blanket. It was here that we would spread the ashes.

But all did not go according to plan. Anyone who's ever seen "The Big Lebowski" will have a sense of what's to come.

I went up in a two-seater with a wonderful man named Cliff, a friend of my grandfather's. He rigged up this contraption that was supposed to send the ashes triumphantly out behind the plane. Obviously, it did not work as it was designed to. And it was here where I learned of another trait of my grandpa's that he and I shared: stubbornness. The man did not want to stop flying!

We were circling these mountains repeatedly. I remember commenting on how the fires scorched them and that you could really smell the charring. The engine cut out once. Cliff mentioned casually that we had 30 minutes of fuel remaining. And try as I might to shake the ashes loose, they were packed down so that they would not budge. Varying in emotion from uncontrollable laughter to fear of eternal consequences, I feverishly cut the container open. My hands were numb from the cold (no cockpit) and the circumstance.

"Alright you stubborn man, get going! I love you, but get going!" I vociferated, probably to the chagrin of the airport's tower. I grasped the container tightly and pointed it as far as was possible behind me. Finally, some air got underneath the fine ash and swirled it out of the container. Most of it went flying in the glorious fashion that we all envisioned, but some did not. Some got in my mouth. Some got on my sweatshirt. Some was all over my hands.

How do you react to that? Parts of my grandfather were imbedded in my clothing! After we landed, my father noted, in jest thank goodness, "Brushing off your sweatshirt is not a good sign!? He understood that the two quarts of ashes did not constitute his father's essence, and that the spreading of his remains was merely a symbolic gesture, a sense of closure for the many people he touched. No matter that some of those remains remained on my clothing and hands!

Man, what an experience. From someone who lives everyday life in excessive surreality, as if nothing is truly real anyhow, this one was off the charts. The plane ride was incredible. The service was touching. The honor of performing this task was memorable and truly wonderful ... and fitting. That such a stubborn man would refuse to let go his final container so that he could make one more pass around his favorite mountain. And that his equally stubborn grandson would use all means necessary to make sure that his grandfather's damnable remains were dispersed into the infinite beyond.

I will miss you grandpa, you stubborn bastard.