(Editor’s note: Larry is the nephew of Norma Gillespie).

I have told many stories in which I end up expressing regret for no longer doing a particular activity or hobby that brings me a lot of joy. The more I am faced with this dilemma, the more I am faced with the question, “What am I going to do about it”?

For starters, I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am from a flying family. We weren’t rich, but my dad was a pilot and would rent a small Cessna from the airport in Tulsa, near where I was raised. After we moved to Tennessee he began flying around the Chattanooga area and would spend much of his time at the airport, soaking up the flying community and spending his free time around the planes, and the people who enjoyed them. My best friend, Jeremiah, obtained his pilot’s license while he was still in high school, which gave us many more interesting weekend options that our other friends. I was the designated co-pilot, which meant I was responsible for packing the plane with our backpacks, holding the map, and providing snacks. I look back and recall that we would often leave on a Friday afternoon after school without a clear destination in mind, but we always had fun.

Small planes aren’t known for their absolute stability, but with regular flights to neighboring airports, and even the surrounding states, we would fly in all conditions, which only made for a more adrenaline-induced experience. I only recognized this when I took an international flight out of Atlanta during a particularly windy evening. While ascending through the clouds, the Boeing 767 shook side to side, lulling me towards a deep sleep which was more appealing to me than the list of in-flight movies. I happened to see that my row neighbor was desperately clenching the arm rest, and his color was more pale than before. I then noticed that nearly everyone had a distressed expression while holding on for dear life. I realized how lucky I was that flying in small aircraft had apparently conditioned me to become unphased by the seemingly minor turbulence experienced in larger aircraft.

After college, our frequent flying adventures became sporadic, but we would still fly whenever we could. There was a time when I hadn’t gotten into a plane… small or large in over two years, and then Jeremiah flew into town and called me. I rushed over and crawled into the cockpit, eager to see my town from the air once again. We taxied out to the runway, and he predictably pushed the throttle forward and we accelerated down the runway. The plane had barely lifted off the ground when I discovered that my stomach was suddenly unhappy with my rash decision to pick up flying again. It was so strange to be in my happy place and yet feel sick to my stomach. I humbly expressed my condition to my friend, who thankfully didn’t shame me for my delicate nature, but we were able to continue our flight across downtown Chattanooga along the beautiful Tennessee river.

I realize that flying is expensive, and it depends on having someone willing and able to take me up for a flight, so it is largely out of my hands if I fly frequently or not. In the fall of 2024, my stepdaughter invited me to the State Fair in Pensacola, Florida so that she could do some of the “taller rides” with her eight-yearold, while I could do the more subtle rides with her six-year-old. I love nothing more than spending time with my granddaughters.

While they may not be of my blood, they have been in my heart since the day each of them was born. Watching them grow and learn and think has been an experience that I am grateful to God that I am able to witness.

The six-year-old is quite small for her age, and she is often frustrated by not being allowed on the zip line near our home. I escorted her through a dozen or so roller coasters, and I wasn’t too heart-broken when she didn’t express interest in the “big kid” rides. At one point there was a circular ride where you get into a car-looking thing, connected to other cars in front and behind you in a constant ring. The ride only consists of going around in a large circle, but the car itself doesn’t spin, so I thought nothing of it. We crawled into our designated car, and I immediately began to have concerns over the genre and the volume of music that this particular attraction had chosen. As the ride began, the music got louder, but I’ll assume its purpose is to mask the clicking and clacking of the ride. The track makes a rise and a fall during its circuit just to keep things interesting, but I was cautiously amazed at how the speed increased every few seconds. Regardless, I knew I would be strong for my grand-daughter as this too shall pass…in another minute or two.

Forces of gravity increasingly smashed her small body into mine, and I would have been concerned if it weren’t for her incessant and contagious laughter. I would frequently look at her and smile reassuringly, but I’m not sure if it was for me or for her. I was relieved as the ride began to slow down, but I would have not wanted to show her that I was happy that the ride was ending. As our cars were slowing to a stop, my senses were confused as the music intensified and I suddenly had this uneasy feeling that I knew what was about to happen next. Sure enough, we were now going to do this whole thing again - backwards.

I made it without embarrassing myself or my granddaughter, but I now think that the reason most adult don’t enjoy roller coasters, or “big kid” rides is simply because we stop riding them. Our bodies become complacent with the status quo and I believe that we stop enjoying the little spinning things in life. The next time the fair is in town, I’m going to push myself, just a little, to keep up with my little people. I would encourage you to do the same.