One hot August day, my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird and I were about to go flying in my Piper Cub when Bubba, a crop duster, walked up. Noticing his gloomy demeanor, Jaybird asked, “What’s wrong, Bubba? You ain’t yo’ usual cheerful self."
Handing the old black man a can, he groaned, “All that’s left of my lifelong friend Jack Stone.” Like Bubba, Jack had been a pilot all his days, but having neither wife nor progeny, he departed this earth with one wish — that his cremated remains be spread over the old Stone family homestead.
