I’d fly my Stinson 108 across the country to take her flying one last time. It was a spur-of-the-moment offer made in an emotional moment—perhaps because I didn’t think she’d be alive much longer to collect her due. In fact, I was under the impression that Marge Dellwo was knocking on death’s very door, which was what prompted the hasty wintertime trip home to Minnesota to say goodbye. My mother tried to steel me against the shock of her condition: “Mom is semicomatose, and mostly nonverbal. She might not recognize you.”
I should have known better. When my brother Steve and I cautiously entered her hospital room, Grandma Marge was not only awake but startlingly alert. She greeted us effusively, her wide eyes aglint with that mischievous spark I know so well. She returned our gentle hugs with surprising strength, then excitedly motioned toward a bedside guestbook filled with love from the grandkids and great-grandkids who had apparently been parading through her room for days. I got the sudden feeling that my grandmother was rather enjoying her supposed deathbed. I wrote some nice things then sat and took Grandma’s hand, preparing to make small talk. She had other ideas and got right down to business: “So, how’s that Stinson of yours? You know that my first flight was in a Stinson 108, right?”
