It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and I had finally decided to tackle a project I’d been putting off for six long years—painting a wall in my bedroom. Between work and parenting, I’d never found the time. The past year of the pandemic had been especially draining for my work as a travel agent. Endless honeymoons, family getaways, bucket-list trips, and once-in-a-lifetime adventures had all been canceled. The loss of income was hard enough, but what hurt even more was seeing my passion—helping others create memories—stalled and set aside. Slowly, things were starting to look up, yet heavy restrictions still made travelers hesitant. That afternoon, I shrugged, picked up a paintbrush, and told myself, “It will be what it will be,” finally ready to cross that wall off my list.
By the time my fingers were covered in paint and needed a quick cleanup, my phone rang. I missed the call but checked the voicemail. A smile spread across my face as I listened to the message. “Julie, Julie, Julie…” an unfamiliar, warm, elderly voice called. There was something immediately friendly about it. The man explained he was a 90-year-old veteran pilot living in an assisted living facility in Florence, Oregon. I live in Northeastern Wyoming, so I was curious how he found me. He went on to explain that he wanted to attend the Reno Air Races that fall with two friends—aged 94 and 96—and someone at his facility had recommended me to handle the travel plans.
I called him back, and from the first moment, we clicked. We talked not just about his trip but also about life itself. Despite the miles between us, we had a surprising amount in common. We both had three children. He had spent time in my home state of Wyoming working as a railroad fireman, and I had worked for a railroad contractor operating coal trains in the mines. He had dabbled in mining in California, and I had spent years running heavy equipment in open-pit coal mines. Our conversations wove between work, life, and humor, and at every turn, we found common ground. Toward the end of our chat, he shared that he and his two friends had all lost their wives and this trip was meant to be their “last hurrah.” He told me how after his wife passed, he had been engulfed in grief until one day he decided to pack his suitcase and pillowcase and move to assisted living to spend his remaining days surrounded by others. His honesty touched my heart deeply.
My own journey had shaped me in ways that made this story resonate even more. I had quit mining in early 2014 when I was expecting my second child, after working eleven years to balance parenting my oldest child and earning a living. When we learned at our ten-week checkup that our baby had no heartbeat, my husband and I were devastated. The following pregnancies led my doctor to urge me out of heavy equipment work, but in coal mining, there’s no such thing as light duty. I hung up my hard hat, put away my steel-toed boots, and decided to focus fully on motherhood. I now have three children, and though it meant becoming a one-income family and putting a pause on my love of travel, I have never regretted it. Family has always been the center of my world, and adventure waits for anyone willing to seize it.
I started mining at eighteen, moving through various departments until I settled in the pit. Most of my coworkers were older men, and my favorite friendships were with the “good old boys,” whose honesty and rough-around-the-edges nature I adored. I attended many funerals for these friends, each leaving me reflecting on the plans they had once spoken of—Alaska someday, Italy with the wife, a cruise after retirement—and realizing how often life’s responsibilities push dreams aside. Some were able to follow their dreams, others weren’t. The funerals of those who hadn’t were heartbreaking, reminders that life is fleeting and precious. One friend’s unexpected heart attack after taking overtime and postponing his retirement cemented a truth I carry to this day: we cannot wait to chase the things that matter.
Four years into my travel career, just as the pandemic was crushing everything around me, I got the call from Jack in Oregon. I promised to get back to him Monday with options for the Reno Air Races tickets. When Monday came, my excitement quickly met a wave of sadness: one of Jack’s friends had fallen ill and been hospitalized. His tone was heavy, and when I mentioned ticket availability, he said softly, “I might not be around by then, either.” My heart ached. None of us knows when our time will end.
I couldn’t shake the sadness, so I turned to my travel agent Facebook community for support. They are a group that laughs, cries, vents, and, most importantly, supports each other. When I shared Jack’s situation, a friend’s response—“Oh no! They have to go!”—lit a spark in me. I began searching for something special in Jack’s area. Too many dreams had been delayed during the pandemic, too many funerals echoed with unfulfilled plans. It was time to change that.
Then, I found it: a biplane operation in Jack’s small town, run by a veteran pilot who had flown in the Reno Air Races. Fate, I thought. To hell with watching from the ground—Jack and his friends would soar. I shared the idea with my travel agent friends, and the response was overwhelming. Mark Elie said, “I’m in! Let me know how much you need!” One after another, more friends offered to contribute. In hours, we had enough to cover flights for all three men, with extra left over.
I coordinated with the assisted living facility, which loved the surprise and agreed to help. The biplane company was equally enthusiastic, even offering to present the gift certificates themselves when Covid restrictions allowed. A letter was written, plans were finalized, and the big day arrived. Photos came in: big smiles, tears wiped away, and the joy of pure surprise. Jack told me, “Only about 10% of people would do something like this for others. You couldn’t have picked a better surprise.”
The emotional impact didn’t end there. I later learned one of Jack’s friends had planned to fly with the biplane company to scatter his late wife’s ashes—he was simply waiting for the right time. Our gift had fallen perfectly into place. I sat down and cried, overwhelmed by the significance. This was no longer just a fun surprise—it was a milestone, a memory, a life-affirming moment.
It felt like more than coincidence. Perhaps it was divine timing, a higher power orchestrating the perfect gift. Whatever it was, I couldn’t have done it without my travel agent friends. We all share a deep-rooted passion for helping others. We care more than any website ever could. And on that day, the proof was in the joy, the tears, and the Venmo messages—love and kindness, coming full circle.
—Julie Pflaumer
