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THE BLUE MAX - ADAM'S STORY  Sharing with you a poignant story received in an e-mail ..... a little boy's dream and a loving uncle ...... Since the early years of the last century, when the bewildering sight of flying machines began to fill the sky, the dreams of and girls were lit by a new fire, one painted in lofty colours of blue and warmed by the unearthly possibility of dancing among the clouds, with hearts pounding as the sun sent shadows spinning through their imaginations. The boys grew into the men and the girls into the women that became the pilots who filled the years of aviation history; the brave ones, the enduring ones, the wild ones, the famous ones and the nameless ones. Universally they walked with swagger and spoke with bravado but, underneath that outer coating of dauntless weathered braggadocio, beat the staccato hearts of wing-struck and girls whose precious dreams were unfolding around them. As it was then, it remains now. still wonder what it is to look down upon the patchwork of the land and rush headlong through canyons of brilliant white. For so many, flight is the stuff of their dreams and those that embrace it will someday take to the sky. On the first day of October 1992, as autumn flared around him like a fanned ember, 13-year-old Adam Kirkpatrick sat at the desk in his room and wrote a simple story. Every night that school year, he attempted to pen a simple and short story—an exercise to gain a hard-earned skill in writing. Writing did not come easy for Adam but he worked diligently and when he wrote from his young heart, his words broke from his hand onto the page and, what at first was difficult work, became a gentle and clear minded statement. That cool October evening so long ago, he wrote, “When we are on the ground staring into the sky, wishing we could fly without a plane. Thinking, wishing, dreaming of flying in the sky, flying so high about the clouds that when I look down at the world it looks like toy cars, like little dolls, like Lego buildings. But you need a plane, a glider or a hand [sic] glider. When you have a hand glider you are as close as you can be to not having a plane so I want to try it someday. I really want to fly a hand glider. The end.” He dated the sheet of three-ring-binder paper 01,10,92 and placed it aside. He planned to show it the following day to his mother. The next day was Friday and the end of the school week brought out the exuberance of life fuelled by the crispness of the autumn air, fragrant with woodsmoke, turned earth and sun-dried leaves. As twilight fell, a boisterous game of Hide and Seek set Adam’s neighbourhood in a happy din of shouts and flashing colour. Breathless laughed and shrieked, calling to one another in the low light of a dying sun. Adam, with his heart lit with joy, laughter and friendship, made a dash for the safety of “Home Free”, cutting across the busy street just below a rise in the road. He was struck down by a car. He took into his coma the glee and perfection of that last moment. His story sat unnoticed at home on his desk. For many days, Adam lay in a coma, his brave fight for life hidden deep inside, beneath gentle lashes. His mother, Anne, found his last story and shared it with me while they held a vigil in the hospital. From a cabinet at home, I took a replica First World War German medal which my brother had given me. It was the famous “Blue Max”—the medal bestowed upon German pilots in the “Great War”, usually the result of continuous bravery and accomplishment in combat. Many of Germany’s highest performing aces were awarded the medal, and all wore it with tremendous pride. The inscription it bore said simply “Pour le Mérite”—For Merit. It felt right as I handed it to his aunt (my wife) who in turn gave it to Adam’s mother. The medal stayed with him for the next two weeks as he lay slender and motionless in his intensive care hospital bed. For everyone at the hospital, it stood for the silent fight that Adam was caught in. It stood for the bravery of a little boy’s soul, the courage of his mother and her sister. It gave a small focus. It wasn’t everything. I wasn’t even much, but it was something. After two and a half weeks, Adam let go and slipped gently from this world, with the joy of an autumn evening still locked within his heart. The Blue Max still hung next to him. That very night, three airplanes, from Toronto, London and Montréal, came to Ottawa, landing in the dark of night, carrying anxious nurses and doctors fighting for other people’s lives. Adam sent them home with gifts from his body for waiting and grateful recipients. That cold October night in 1992, Adam was finally flying. Somewhere in Montréal the next morning, a ’s new heart began to beat a steady rhythm and perhaps filled his or her soul with an unexplained and previously unnoticed desire to fly a hang-glider. When I went to the funeral home, there was much I wished to say to his mother, but as we stood next to Adam’s slender body I knew that, despite my ineloquence, she was comforted by the presence of myself and the hundreds of others who came to help her carry her burden. As Adam lay there, Anne took from the breast pocket of his shirt the Blue Max and pressed it to my hand. “Take this with you when you fly Dave” she said. “Look for my . Tell him I love him.” A week later, as I opened the throttle on the Challenger ultralight and lifted from the cool grassy strip in the mountains near Buckingham, Québec, the Blue Max lay thrust deep in my pants pocket, its metal cool against my thigh. Settling out at a thousand feet, I felt my way through a few turns in the cold blue sky then swung north towards the hazy mountains. Beneath me, the trees, now bare of leaves, stretched in rolling smokey ridges to the horizon, exposing small farm houses and tiny villages—Adam’s Lego world just beginning its long winter sleep. A silent thought completed my promise to Anne as I took my hand from the throttle and touched the Blue Max through glove and denim. I looked out over the horizon and the town to the toy-like world Adam had imagined and the final words of John Gillespie Magee’s poem came to me as I knew they would: And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, - Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. It is 21 years this week since my nephew Adam died. He would be 34, but to his mother and family, he is forever thirteen. By Dave O’Malley "To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra |
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10/20/2013 9:57 am |
Wonderful story. As you and I believe Adam did indeed get to fly. I can only imagine how he felt being free of the body and sailing over this reality. Spiritwoman ^i^
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Welcome to my blog, CactusAnnie.  I am glad that you not only liked the blog but also gauged correctly the emotions behind the author's work who was an accomplished ace aviator. Have a nice day. "To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra
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Wonderful story. As you and I believe Adam did indeed get to fly. I can only imagine how he felt being free of the body and sailing over this reality. There is a point and a question regarding being free of the body; Hinduism and Buddhism believe that those with a positive mind harbouring compassion always soar and enjoy the experience whereas the others are rather restless and tormented. I believe my mother was the first kind and I have thought of her often; she has never, not even once,appeared in my dreams whereas so many others have. Have a wonderful day, SpiritGirl.  "To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra
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Welcome to my blog, LuluQC. I am glad you liked the story here. It happens to be true. Have a beautiful day. "To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra
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I am glad you liked this true story, TheGrouch. Have a wonderful day. "To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra
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You, Poet_dancer, are always so kind and appreciative. Many thanks.  Sleep well, happy dreams and a beautiful day tomorrow full of your usual creativity. & KsOCs"To fight the darkness do not draw your sword, light a candle" - Zarathustra
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