Sunday, November 30, 2008
Awesome
I think every kid goes through it. That point when their daddy becomes awesome in their eyes. Before that time, dads are just there, being taken for granted. Then something happens that amazes, astounds, or otherwise impresses the child. For me, it was when Dad took me fishing for the first time. I was about seven years old at the time. We were living in Colorado, Uncle John lived less than an hour away, and Grandma Fields lived across the fence from us. Dad and Uncle John had planned a fishing outing for our families. We all piled into our respective cars and headed into the mountains. I remember seeing my cousins rigging their lines and heading into the woods in search of the perfect fishing spot. I was kind of jealous, and also impressed. Maybe someday I would be able to have that level of skill and independence. Anyway, Dad and I headed up the stream for a ways, then crossed a very muddy meadow, and came up by a small pond. There were (to me) tall bushes all around the pond, so that my only view of it was through openings in the brush. Dad could see over them. He told me that he could see some fish in the pond. Instructing me to be very quiet, he showed me how to put a worm on a hook. Then he cast it out for me, and handed me the rod. Luckily, it was a fly rod so it was long enough to keep the line out of the bushes. Dad watched as several fish (invisible to me behind the brush) investigated the worm, and gave me play-by-play narration. Then he instructed me to jerk the rod and I was connected to a fish! It probably only took a few seconds for me to reel it in, but it felt like a long time. Soon, a small fish lay at our feet. It couldn't have been much over six inches in length, but it was my first fish. Dad pulled out his sheath knife and showed me how to clean the fish. (The knife was longer than my fish was.) He put the fish into his creel, and we made our way back to join the others. My cousins had caught some fish, too. There were more of them, and they were bigger than mine, but I didn't seem to mind. Daddy had taught me how to fish! I thought he was awesome, because he could tell what the fish were going to do, and how to make them eat my worm. We ate a picnic lunch, and then had to go home. We used to go to my grandmother's cabin for Sunday dinner. It must have been a Sunday when I caught that fish, because I remember that Grandma cooked my fish for me. It didn't take up a lot of room on the plate, I remember. There were, of course, other happenings in my life that reminded me of just how awesome Dad was. Watching him control an airplane when he took me flying, building the famous "box", even driving across the country and finding our destination with no apparent difficulty. All of these (and more) made lasting impressions on me. I think what impressed me most about Dad was that he never "failed". He might have some "bumps in the road occasionally", but he never let them keep him from his objective. He never gave up. And because of that, my Dad was awesome.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Once, Always
"A friend is someone who knows everything about you. . .and still likes you."
Over the years, my father made many friends and acquaintances. Probably more than he knew. His influence touched many lives besides just my own. I have met people all over the country that have crossed paths with my father. Without exception, they have had nothing but praise, respect, and admiration for him. Some knew him from the military. Most of them met him after he got out of the Air Force. Through business dealings and his Church responsibilities, all who met him knew that he was a man of his word.
I can remember in Japan, when I was about 4 years old, that a couple of Dad's friends used to stop by occasionally. One of them was a Lt. Blackwell. I think they used to call him "Blackie". I remember liking it when he would come over. I guess Dad kept in touch with him off and on through the years. He was evidently stationed in Viet Nam at the same time Dad was. What happened to him after that, I don't know. Also, while we were in Japan, the family that lived next to us had a daughter my age. We again ran into them in Florida, in 1969. I briefly tried to "rekindle" the "romance" that their daughter and I had shared when we were 4, but we had changed over the ten years we had been apart. But Dad and Major Bedsworth were still friends. We went water skiing with them, and they taught me to slalom ski. What does this have to do with anything? It has taught me the value of making and keeping friends.
Throughout my life I, too, have met countless people as a result of different jobs, schools, neighborhoods, and locales. Even though they number in (possibly) the thousands, there are comparatively few that I consider to be "true" friends. People that I try to stay in touch with, despite the miles that may separate us. People that share a bond with me. People that are like "family". People that will open their door to me no matter where or when we may chance to encounter one another. I have written about one of these people already, my friend Randy. I have known him for 40 years, and we still manage to communicate with each other at least twice a month through emails or phone calls. He has seen me through some of my greatest triumphs, as well as deepest despair, and remains to this day one of the people that I can call upon if needed.
Another man that I can call upon: my good friend John. We were in the junior-high band together. We were both trumpet players at the time. He was a year behind me in school, and by the time he got to high school, had decided to not be in the band. We saw each other in the halls occasionally, but never really connected until we found out that we were "dating" girls that lived across the street from each other. The four of us would occasionally do things together, but it was when the "girls" (who were best friends) would do things together (they both kept horses at the same stable), that John and I would end up hanging out together. Our friendship grew, and continued to grow after both girls had moved on, and we had chosen different career paths. After I moved into my first "place", John was a frequent visitor and guest. One time, he brought a guy that he worked with to our apartment. His name was Bill, and he was a black belt, among other things. I remember that they were "adding on" to the complex where we were living, and that there were always construction materials in the area. One night, they brought some cinder blocks up to the apartment, and Bill was breaking them with his fist. I was suitably impressed. John "moved" up to Alabama to attend college, but managed to visit pretty regularly. Randy was at college, and Bill and I spent a lot of time hanging out together. Soon, I was learning karate from Bill. He was an excellent teacher, and I was, honestly, a great student. I progressed rapidly, until he and I were teaching a class together, as well as being roommates. When his car burned up on the way to class one day, he was left without transportation and a lot of personal belongings. He enlisted in the Marines shortly thereafter. I tried to stay proficient in the martial arts during his absence. He stopped by when he would have leave, and we would catch up. Many times, John or Randy would be there as well. If you could get any two of us together for a while, there wasn't a beer bottle that was safe. If all four of us happened to be together, it was a party that usually stretched until dawn. My friendships did not end with their marriages, I simply gained another close personal friend. Their wives have all been like sisters, probably even closer. I have loved these men and their wives like family, and they have all returned my love in kind. The "shortest" of these friendships has spanned 35 years. I have met many people since, and few have cemented a bond like these three.
Roughly six years ago, I had the opportunity to speak at church. I happened to be relating a story about my father. After the services a couple came up to me and asked if I was any relation to Sam Fields, from Florida. I replied that yes, he was my father. They had known him in Florida and spoke of their love and admiration for him. My father made lasting friendships with all those that he touched. Well, maybe not "friendships", but certainly a lasting impression. A positive impression.
I am now "middle-aged", and have no idea if any of my father's squadron-mates are still around, but if they are, I know that they remember my father. When I spoke at Dad's funeral, I said something to the effect that he had been "one of the finest men to ever walk the face of the earth". After the service, more than one person came up to me to affirm that statement. Do I have as many friends? I doubt it, but there are at least three people who will remember who I am. True friends.
Over the years, my father made many friends and acquaintances. Probably more than he knew. His influence touched many lives besides just my own. I have met people all over the country that have crossed paths with my father. Without exception, they have had nothing but praise, respect, and admiration for him. Some knew him from the military. Most of them met him after he got out of the Air Force. Through business dealings and his Church responsibilities, all who met him knew that he was a man of his word.
I can remember in Japan, when I was about 4 years old, that a couple of Dad's friends used to stop by occasionally. One of them was a Lt. Blackwell. I think they used to call him "Blackie". I remember liking it when he would come over. I guess Dad kept in touch with him off and on through the years. He was evidently stationed in Viet Nam at the same time Dad was. What happened to him after that, I don't know. Also, while we were in Japan, the family that lived next to us had a daughter my age. We again ran into them in Florida, in 1969. I briefly tried to "rekindle" the "romance" that their daughter and I had shared when we were 4, but we had changed over the ten years we had been apart. But Dad and Major Bedsworth were still friends. We went water skiing with them, and they taught me to slalom ski. What does this have to do with anything? It has taught me the value of making and keeping friends.
Throughout my life I, too, have met countless people as a result of different jobs, schools, neighborhoods, and locales. Even though they number in (possibly) the thousands, there are comparatively few that I consider to be "true" friends. People that I try to stay in touch with, despite the miles that may separate us. People that share a bond with me. People that are like "family". People that will open their door to me no matter where or when we may chance to encounter one another. I have written about one of these people already, my friend Randy. I have known him for 40 years, and we still manage to communicate with each other at least twice a month through emails or phone calls. He has seen me through some of my greatest triumphs, as well as deepest despair, and remains to this day one of the people that I can call upon if needed.
Another man that I can call upon: my good friend John. We were in the junior-high band together. We were both trumpet players at the time. He was a year behind me in school, and by the time he got to high school, had decided to not be in the band. We saw each other in the halls occasionally, but never really connected until we found out that we were "dating" girls that lived across the street from each other. The four of us would occasionally do things together, but it was when the "girls" (who were best friends) would do things together (they both kept horses at the same stable), that John and I would end up hanging out together. Our friendship grew, and continued to grow after both girls had moved on, and we had chosen different career paths. After I moved into my first "place", John was a frequent visitor and guest. One time, he brought a guy that he worked with to our apartment. His name was Bill, and he was a black belt, among other things. I remember that they were "adding on" to the complex where we were living, and that there were always construction materials in the area. One night, they brought some cinder blocks up to the apartment, and Bill was breaking them with his fist. I was suitably impressed. John "moved" up to Alabama to attend college, but managed to visit pretty regularly. Randy was at college, and Bill and I spent a lot of time hanging out together. Soon, I was learning karate from Bill. He was an excellent teacher, and I was, honestly, a great student. I progressed rapidly, until he and I were teaching a class together, as well as being roommates. When his car burned up on the way to class one day, he was left without transportation and a lot of personal belongings. He enlisted in the Marines shortly thereafter. I tried to stay proficient in the martial arts during his absence. He stopped by when he would have leave, and we would catch up. Many times, John or Randy would be there as well. If you could get any two of us together for a while, there wasn't a beer bottle that was safe. If all four of us happened to be together, it was a party that usually stretched until dawn. My friendships did not end with their marriages, I simply gained another close personal friend. Their wives have all been like sisters, probably even closer. I have loved these men and their wives like family, and they have all returned my love in kind. The "shortest" of these friendships has spanned 35 years. I have met many people since, and few have cemented a bond like these three.
Roughly six years ago, I had the opportunity to speak at church. I happened to be relating a story about my father. After the services a couple came up to me and asked if I was any relation to Sam Fields, from Florida. I replied that yes, he was my father. They had known him in Florida and spoke of their love and admiration for him. My father made lasting friendships with all those that he touched. Well, maybe not "friendships", but certainly a lasting impression. A positive impression.
I am now "middle-aged", and have no idea if any of my father's squadron-mates are still around, but if they are, I know that they remember my father. When I spoke at Dad's funeral, I said something to the effect that he had been "one of the finest men to ever walk the face of the earth". After the service, more than one person came up to me to affirm that statement. Do I have as many friends? I doubt it, but there are at least three people who will remember who I am. True friends.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
They Really Do
Do you ever read bumper stickers? Of course you do, everyone does. You can find a bumper sticker about literally every subject, pastime, destination, passion, or occupation imaginable.
Over the years, I have seen thousands of bumper stickers. Dad didn't care for them. He didn't want to "trash up" his car. I remember when I was younger, we went to a "tourist attraction", a cave in Missouri, I believe. As we were standing in line for our tickets, Dad spied a young man heading out into the parking lot with a handful of bumper stickers to put on all the cars. (Can you imagine, a FREE bumper sticker?) Anyway, after we got to the front of the line, Dad specifically requested that NO bumper sticker should be put on the station wagon parked "over there". We toured the cave, and prepared to leave. As we were piling into the car, Dad spotted the bumper sticker. Diving into the glove compartment, he came out with a razor blade scraper, and proceeded to remove the offending decoration right there in the parking lot. It wasn't an "offensive" sticker, there was nothing obscene on it. Not at all like the stickers one sees on the road nowadays. The only bumper sticker that Dad ever allowed on the car was one that read: "Don't Let Them Be Forgotten", and underneath in big letters: "POW-MIA" (Prisoners Of War, Missing In Action). There was a family in our neighborhood in Florida,whose father/husband was Missing In Action. A man who used to live down the street from us in Tucson, turned up Missing In Action in the 60's. He was shot down while on a combat mission. According to his wingman, there were flames coming from the aircraft, and it spun in. No parachutes were spotted. Dad was the wingman. He didn't have to "drill it into our heads", that this (Viet Nam) war was not only important, but dangerous as well. I'm sure that's why we had the POW-MIA bumper sticker on the car.
Like I said, there are bumper stickers for any occasion: "Love a Welder and Watch the Sparks Fly!" "Divers do it Deeper" There are any number of stickers that promote "IT" being performed by any number of trades and occupations. What you interpret "IT" as is limited only by your imagination. Usually, there is an obscene connotation.
I remember the first bumper sticker I heard about that talked about "IT". Dad came home one day and was almost "bubbling" about a sticker he had seen. It said, simply: "FIGHTER PILOTS DO IT BETTER". Nothing obscene or ribald. Pick a task. . .it will be done better by a Fighter Pilot, no matter what IT is. It has been proven to me time after time, by some of the greatest men ever to walk the earth, or fly above it.
I have a cousin who worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. When he was young, his teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. "Doctor, Spaceman, Nurse, Princess, President" were probably some of the answers his classmates gave. When it was his turn, he answered, "I want to be Uncle Sam". I guess his classmates laughed at him. No, he didn't want to have his face on a poster, pointing, and saying I WANT YOU. He wanted to be like my Dad, his uncle, Sam.
Now, I must clarify something. Just because a man (or woman) straps on a jet and heads for the wild blue unknown, that person is not necessarily a Fighter Pilot. Different people have their own "standard" that they judge people by. There are many honorable men out there. There are many patriotic men out there. There are also many brave, faithful, honest and/or reverent men out there. Most men have at least one of these qualities. Some men possess two or more of these traits. The man who lives behind me embodies ALL of these traits, and more. He is a retired plumber. He is a friend to all, is loved and respected by all who know him, and he hasn't flown (to my knowledge) except on an airliner as a passenger. But this great man, to me, is a Fighter Pilot. That is "my standard" that I evaluate people against. There can be no higher praise from me than, "Officer and a Gentleman" or, "Fighter Pilot". Fighter Pilots Do It Better. They really do.
Over the years, I have seen thousands of bumper stickers. Dad didn't care for them. He didn't want to "trash up" his car. I remember when I was younger, we went to a "tourist attraction", a cave in Missouri, I believe. As we were standing in line for our tickets, Dad spied a young man heading out into the parking lot with a handful of bumper stickers to put on all the cars. (Can you imagine, a FREE bumper sticker?) Anyway, after we got to the front of the line, Dad specifically requested that NO bumper sticker should be put on the station wagon parked "over there". We toured the cave, and prepared to leave. As we were piling into the car, Dad spotted the bumper sticker. Diving into the glove compartment, he came out with a razor blade scraper, and proceeded to remove the offending decoration right there in the parking lot. It wasn't an "offensive" sticker, there was nothing obscene on it. Not at all like the stickers one sees on the road nowadays. The only bumper sticker that Dad ever allowed on the car was one that read: "Don't Let Them Be Forgotten", and underneath in big letters: "POW-MIA" (Prisoners Of War, Missing In Action). There was a family in our neighborhood in Florida,whose father/husband was Missing In Action. A man who used to live down the street from us in Tucson, turned up Missing In Action in the 60's. He was shot down while on a combat mission. According to his wingman, there were flames coming from the aircraft, and it spun in. No parachutes were spotted. Dad was the wingman. He didn't have to "drill it into our heads", that this (Viet Nam) war was not only important, but dangerous as well. I'm sure that's why we had the POW-MIA bumper sticker on the car.
Like I said, there are bumper stickers for any occasion: "Love a Welder and Watch the Sparks Fly!" "Divers do it Deeper" There are any number of stickers that promote "IT" being performed by any number of trades and occupations. What you interpret "IT" as is limited only by your imagination. Usually, there is an obscene connotation.
I remember the first bumper sticker I heard about that talked about "IT". Dad came home one day and was almost "bubbling" about a sticker he had seen. It said, simply: "FIGHTER PILOTS DO IT BETTER". Nothing obscene or ribald. Pick a task. . .it will be done better by a Fighter Pilot, no matter what IT is. It has been proven to me time after time, by some of the greatest men ever to walk the earth, or fly above it.
I have a cousin who worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. When he was young, his teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. "Doctor, Spaceman, Nurse, Princess, President" were probably some of the answers his classmates gave. When it was his turn, he answered, "I want to be Uncle Sam". I guess his classmates laughed at him. No, he didn't want to have his face on a poster, pointing, and saying I WANT YOU. He wanted to be like my Dad, his uncle, Sam.
Now, I must clarify something. Just because a man (or woman) straps on a jet and heads for the wild blue unknown, that person is not necessarily a Fighter Pilot. Different people have their own "standard" that they judge people by. There are many honorable men out there. There are many patriotic men out there. There are also many brave, faithful, honest and/or reverent men out there. Most men have at least one of these qualities. Some men possess two or more of these traits. The man who lives behind me embodies ALL of these traits, and more. He is a retired plumber. He is a friend to all, is loved and respected by all who know him, and he hasn't flown (to my knowledge) except on an airliner as a passenger. But this great man, to me, is a Fighter Pilot. That is "my standard" that I evaluate people against. There can be no higher praise from me than, "Officer and a Gentleman" or, "Fighter Pilot". Fighter Pilots Do It Better. They really do.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Not All Dreams Come True
"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the trembling mirth of
sun-split clouds-and done 100 things you have not dreamed of-
wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.
Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept hills with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind, I trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God!"
-John Gillespie Maggee, age 19
Royal Canadian Air Force
Throughout my entire life, I have always loved flying. In a commercial airliner, a private plane, a hang glider, it didn't matter. As long as there was "air" between me and the ground, I could be happy. Some of my fondest memories are flying with Dad. I used to dream about him being able to take me up in a fighter. Those dreams have continued throughout my life, even after he passed away in early 2003. To be able to "watch him work" would have been great. The closest that I got to that was when he was assigned the task of, well,. . . I'm not sure was he was doing. But it involved taking an Air Force car out and parking between two runways. Dad was able to communicate with the pilots that were taking off or landing. Seeing fighters race by us on either side, hearing that tremendous roar on takeoff, listening to Dad "talk to the planes" was, in a word, "awesome". (And Dad had been worried that I might get bored!) All too soon, it was time to go home.
After Dad retired, he managed to stay in the air. I think he was living in Ohio at the time, but he and Judy and Jenny flew down for a visit. When the time came for them to return home, he offered to make a "detour" and fly me to Mississippi where I was going to visit a friend. That flight was way too short. One hour and forty minutes from Ft. Walton Beach Florida to Hattiesburg Mississippi. It would have taken me most of a day to drive it.
I had wanted to be a fighter pilot when I grew up. My eyesight hampered that dream, although I could have flown transports, or maybe even heavy bombers, with eyeglasses. But, to me, that was more like "driving a bus". I wanted to "drive the sports cars". I have alternately regretted and justified that decision made so many years ago. I could have transitioned into commercial flying after getting out, either with a freight company or an airline. (I'd probably have made more money). And I would have been flying.
When Dad got "his wings clipped", I know that it must have been really hard on him. Having spent a large portion of his life in the air, going high enough to see the curvature of the Earth, going so fast that he could be there and gone before someone even heard him coming, facing Death countless times and coming out on top, "touching the face of God",only to be grounded. It must have been tough. I promised myself that "when I could afford it" I would get my pilot's license and take Dad up and hand off the controls to him. He deserved it. And, I know that I couldn't have given him a "gift" that would have touched him more. Dad, like I have said before, was born to fly.
When Dad passed away, I realized that I would never be able to fulfill my dream of giving him the controls and let him "do his thing" one more time. Nonetheless, I still planned on getting my "ticket" and flying. But there would be no "handing over the reins", now. I would have to be satisfied in the knowledge that Dad would always be my "co-pilot". But, the problem of actually getting my wings still was out of my financial reach. I could have taken out a loan, but by this time my credit was just above lousy, and I couldn't have guaranteed that I would be able to pay it back.
When a company I had been working for had to "close its doors" in late 2004, I searched for a job. . .again. I stumbled across an ad for a draftsman on the internet one night. I had been a welder for most of my life, and had extensive experience in a machine shop, sheet metal shop, and I was able to pursue my "hobby" of drafting and 3d modeling. I had worked as a draftsman before, so I went in to apply. The company happened to build aircraft kits. I asked what drafting program they used to generate their drawings. It happened to be a different program than the one I had used previously. I filled out an application anyway, and left a resume. About a week later, my phone rang. It was the woman from HR. "We really need someone who can 'hit the ground running' with our program", she said. I thought to myself, "what the heck, I tried". "But," she continued, "we do need a full-time welder." That is how I got into the aircraft industry. I had, for many years, been a really good welder. I had enjoyed the opportunities of working with some of the best, and I had learned well. Now was my opportunity to really shine. I received many compliments and accolades for the quality of my work. After all, I was building the landing gear and various other "flight safety" items for their kit plane. I saw my opportunity to again take to the air. All I needed to do was beg a ride in one, and buy a kit to build my own. This was almost a consuming passion. I wanted to fly. And this was my ticket.
I enjoyed working for this company so much that I rarely took a day off. Before I knew it, I had three weeks vacation accrued, which was the maximum one could accumulate. So, I scheduled myself to take a week off. I had been feeling "kinda tired" as of late, and figured that maybe I ought to take it easy for a week, not think about work, just relax. I took my week off, and tried to rest, but no matter how long I "slept in", I just felt drained, and I got winded very easily. The day before I was to return to work, my wife suggested that I should see a doctor to see if anything was wrong. Getting tired for no reason was certainly out of character for me. So, we went to the local "doc-in-a-box" clinic. During my checkup, they found that my blood pressure was 70/40, and my pulse rate was 185 beats per minute. They gave me some pills to take, and told me that I should see a cardiologist before I returned to work.
Early the next morning, I called my supervisor to tell him that I would probably be in around noon, and explained that I had been instructed to see a physician before going back to work. I was hoping for an early appointment, but could not be seen until later that afternoon. So I called my boss back and told him I would probably take the whole day off, and I would see him tomorrow. I went to see the cardiologist later that day. That was the last time I saw "daylight" for quite a while. They called the hospital across the street and reserved a room for me. My BP was still really low, and my pulse fluctated from a "low" of 180 to a peak of 192 beats per minute. I figured I would be there overnight for observation, and then released to go back to work. Ten or so days later, I emerged from the hospital, the proud owner of an ICD (implantible cardiovert defibrillator) and a hospital bill of well over $100,000. Oh yes, and one other thing: I could no longer weld for a living. Since my implant also functions as a pacemaker, the magnetic field produced by welding could alter the regulatory output and make my heart go nuts, or could cause the defibrillator to either "fire" unnecessarily, or suppress the "firing" if it were needed. Luckily, I had enough manufacturing experience, and I had been learning and using the drafting/modeling program they used, so that I was still "valuable" to them. In fact, shortly before I took my (3) weeks' vacation, I had gotten a new title: Manufacturing Technician. The duties were: if it needs to be done, you see it through. Example: take a "napkin sketch", model it on the computer, make drawings/blueprints, make the part, test the part, report results. Only now, I had to get someone else to do the welding for me.
About a week after I returned to work, I finally got the opportunity to fly in one of our aircraft. The company was sponsoring demo rides for the employees. If I had been passionate about flying my own aircraft before, now I was Possessed! I even formulated plans about how to finance the kit, where to build it, even the paint job. I was going to fly!
About six months after my surgery, I found out that I could not get a private pilot's license because of my ICD. People with pacemakers could get waivers from the FAA, but ICD's were still a relatively new development, and the FAA didn't "trust?" them. Like my father before me, my wings were clipped. End of story? Not quite. Although I cannot get a private pilot's license, I may still be able to fly under the ELSA (I believe it means Experimental Light Sport Aircraft) rules. As long as I can pass the medical, take the requisite training, and the gross weight limit is not exceeded, I can fly. At least, that's the theory. There are a few more restrictions to deal with. The main ones right now would be financial, and getting a doctor to sign off on my flying. According to my cardiologist, my heart is almost back to "normal" two years after my surgery. Although the likelihood of having my ICD removed is pretty slim, I continue to hope.
Friday, November 14, 2008
A Man of Many Talents
Like my father, I have held many jobs in my life. The military was Dad's career, and flying was one of his jobs in that career. He was also an administrator, an instructor, a strategist, and a student. I don't think he ever stopped learning. He learned, like a lot of us, from teachers and peers. And, like all of us, he probably learned a lot from mistakes, both his and those of others. I know that he believed in being careful, and in taking care of what was his: his family, his car, the plane he was to fly, his tools, and his boat.
Dad bought two boats that I know of. He bought us a small fishing boat and motor from Sears. It was eight feet long, and four feet wide at the beam, and would hold two thousand pounds. It was made of molded fiberglass or PVC, and was filled with foam. It was impossible to sink. I used to take it out during the summer, and go to visit a friend that lived on the water. We would take the motor off, and moor it out in the cove. Then we would see how many people we could get crammed onto it, just to see if it would go under. Just about the time we would get the gunwales under the surface, someone would fall out, and the boat would pop back to the surface. There were many times that I went fishing in the rain, and would have three or four inches of water in the bottom. I never worried about sinking. I would just head for shore, pull up onto the beach, get out, and dump the water out. Then I would head back out. As a result, the boat was known as "The Cork".
The other boat that he bought was a ski/fishing boat. It was an 18 1/2 foot "Seabreeze" bowrider with a cathedral hull, and a (for the time) big outboard motor. Dad couldn't decide which motor to put on it: a 120 H.P. Chrysler, or the 135 Racing Motor. I wanted the 135 and, of course, we got the 120. I remember our first boating trips around the bayous and bay. Dad was careful to not go faster than "half-throttle" most of the time, with occasional short runs at full throttle. I was really disappointed with our boat. It would hardly get up on a plane. I told myself that maybe six people in the boat was hampering the performance, and that with fewer people it might go a little faster. But, it was a good fishing boat, because with the open bow, everybody could fish. And, it did go (barely) fast enough to ski behind. We noticed that although it didn't go as fast as we thought it should, it had plenty of power. We could pull two skiers at once with no noticable reduction in speed. After the motor had been "broken in", we did a lot of skiing. I remember one day, my sister Kathy and I were to have "our turn" to ski. We both jumped in the water, found our ropes, and hollered "HIT IT!!". To our surprise, we were jerked from the water so fast that she lost her rope. I was already up on my ski, and we hadn't even reached the "bubble trail" from the motor yet. I dropped the rope so that I wouldn't leave Kathy behind. Dad, of course, turned the boat around and pulled up next to us in the water. Bryan or Sandy was already pulling the ropes in. "We'll be right back," Dad said. Then our slug/snail boat screamed away like it was jet-powered. They went about a quarter of a mile, turned around, and came to pick us up. We got in the boat, and Dad took off. This boat was fast. Really fast. Of course, I asked what had happened. Evidently, there was a "stiff" spot in the throttle that offered enough resistance that it felt like a stop. Dad, probably also exasperated by the tortoise-like performance, had slammed the throttle hard when we hollered "HIT IT". He had pushed the throttle past the stiff spot and found that we had been running somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 throttle when we thought we were running at "full". That boat was a lot more fun after that. There were many times that, while skiing with friends, we had eight people in the boat and pulling three slalom skiers and still not running at full throttle. I have always wondered how that boat would have performed with the 135 on it, although it didn't need it. That boat could do an honest 60 mph with three or four people in it. One time, my friend Randy, his girlfriend, another acquaintance, and I found out that Dad had the boat out and decided to see if we could maybe make a ski run or two. We went down to the place that we always went skiing, and found Dad and the boat. After a little pleading, we took off in the boat for a little while so we might do a little skiing. I wanted to ski also, so Randy was driving the boat and I was skiing when we ran down the bayou. Randy turned around at the end of the bayou and opened it up. When we got to the other end, he decided to run down the bayou again and cranked the boat into a hard turn. The water was like glass, and I went to the outside of the turn. I was going so fast that the fin on my ski was vibrating and I could actually hear a high pitched buzzing. I realized that I was going way too fast right about the time I fell. I remember hitting the water three times before I stopped. The people in the boat told me that I did a flip each time I touched the water. When I came back to the surface after my "fall", I noticed that my ski was about 75 feet away. I started swimming toward my ski, and noticed that my toe felt funny. I raised my foot out of the water to investigate, and saw that blood was streaming from my big toe. Somehow, I had split it open. We gathered the ski and me, pulled in the rope, and hightailed it back to where we had parked, and where Dad was. Rather, where Dad was supposed to be. I guess we had been gone so long that he had headed back to the marina or something. We finally got the boat secured, and we piled into the car to go to the emergency room on base. We got there, only to find that they could not stitch me up unless I had a parent/guardian there, since I was still technically a minor. I spent lots of time on the phone trying to get hold of Mom or Dad. Finally, somebody came to the hospital and they put stitches in my toe. Those were the first stitches I had ever gotten. I only wish that they were the only ones that I would get during my life.
If Dad hadn't been so careful while breaking in the boat motor, would it have run as good as it did? Maybe, but probably not for as long. He was pretty good about taking care of his cars, too. I remember being in third grade and asking him what "power steering" did. We happened to have just pulled into our garage at the time. He tried to explain that the power of the engine helped make it easier to steer, but I didn't understand. So, while sitting in the garage with the engine running, he turned the steering wheel with one finger, first one way, then the other. He expressed worry about wearing the tires, but for the sake of my education, he did it anyway. Then he turned the engine off and showed me how difficult it was to turn the steering wheel, even with both hands. That seemed to satisfy me for the time being, but I do remember his concern about the tires.
When he would take me flying, he would stress the importance of a pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. I found it boring and repetitive, but later in my life I saw the importance of it. I was working for a company that built gyroplanes. Actually, we built a kit for other people to build their own aircraft. I wondered about the importance of inspecting the aircraft between flights, especially if it had only been on the ground for a few minutes. One of our aircraft had been out flying in the pattern, giving demo rides to a prospective customer, as well as to some of the employees who had "never been up". After one flight, the pilot made yet another inspection. He found that a support strut for the rotor head was failing. Gyroplanes are one of the safest types of aircraft, but the safety depends upon the rotor head. The entire weight of the aircraft hangs from it. If it fails, or control to it is lost, it can result in an uncontrolled landing (crash). Dad used to tell me that a landing was a "controlled crash", and that a crash was an "uncontrolled landing". There are any number of things that can go wrong (fail) on an aircraft, as well as a car, or even a power tool. Luckily, Dad always knew to take care of, and care about, these things.
Like I said, Dad was a man of many jobs. During his life he was: a truck driver, a fighter pilot and instructor, a "company pilot" flying a salesman around the region, a flying salesman (they got rid of the other guy), a janitorial supplies salesman, a used car salesman, an airplane salesman, a "paperboy", the owner of a paint store, a "soda-jerk", a short-order cook, a grandfather, a GREAT father, and a missionary. Seems like in most of those, he was trying to sell something! At times, he was even trying to "sell" ME! (Let me explain that one.) When I was living in South Florida (West Palm Beach area), Dad, who was living in Logan, Utah at the time, would frequently call me to tell me about all the welding jobs available in Utah. Many of the jobs were in areas that I had little experience in. I would politely listen, and never do anything about it. After many of these calls, I sent him a copy of my resume so that he would know just exactly what my qualifications were, and to "get him off my back", so to speak. Soon, I started getting calls from companies in Utah and Wyoming. Dad had copied my resume and distributed it to any company that had an ad posted. I took down a lot of information from a lot of companies, and told them all that unless they wanted to fly me out for an interview/test and return flight, they would have to wait until I had a bunch of "leads". To my surprise, I actually got enough prospects to warrant a flight to Utah. One interview/test was in Wyoming, so Dad let me borrow a car to drive there. I took the test, but didn't have good feelings about the job. It was out in the middle of nowhere, and I had a wife and soon-to-be-one year old son to think about. Dad offered to chauffeur me down to Salt Lake City and the surrounding area. One company (I remember their phone call: "Yes,. . .I have your resume in my hand and have no idea how I came to have it ") offered to help with relocation expenses if I would hire on with them. Done deal! Now I have been in Utah for 28 years, and I never would have ended up here if my Dad hadn't tried to "sell me". I guess Dad thought (or hoped) that I was like him. . .the best at what I chose to do. . .whatever that might be.
Dad bought two boats that I know of. He bought us a small fishing boat and motor from Sears. It was eight feet long, and four feet wide at the beam, and would hold two thousand pounds. It was made of molded fiberglass or PVC, and was filled with foam. It was impossible to sink. I used to take it out during the summer, and go to visit a friend that lived on the water. We would take the motor off, and moor it out in the cove. Then we would see how many people we could get crammed onto it, just to see if it would go under. Just about the time we would get the gunwales under the surface, someone would fall out, and the boat would pop back to the surface. There were many times that I went fishing in the rain, and would have three or four inches of water in the bottom. I never worried about sinking. I would just head for shore, pull up onto the beach, get out, and dump the water out. Then I would head back out. As a result, the boat was known as "The Cork".
The other boat that he bought was a ski/fishing boat. It was an 18 1/2 foot "Seabreeze" bowrider with a cathedral hull, and a (for the time) big outboard motor. Dad couldn't decide which motor to put on it: a 120 H.P. Chrysler, or the 135 Racing Motor. I wanted the 135 and, of course, we got the 120. I remember our first boating trips around the bayous and bay. Dad was careful to not go faster than "half-throttle" most of the time, with occasional short runs at full throttle. I was really disappointed with our boat. It would hardly get up on a plane. I told myself that maybe six people in the boat was hampering the performance, and that with fewer people it might go a little faster. But, it was a good fishing boat, because with the open bow, everybody could fish. And, it did go (barely) fast enough to ski behind. We noticed that although it didn't go as fast as we thought it should, it had plenty of power. We could pull two skiers at once with no noticable reduction in speed. After the motor had been "broken in", we did a lot of skiing. I remember one day, my sister Kathy and I were to have "our turn" to ski. We both jumped in the water, found our ropes, and hollered "HIT IT!!". To our surprise, we were jerked from the water so fast that she lost her rope. I was already up on my ski, and we hadn't even reached the "bubble trail" from the motor yet. I dropped the rope so that I wouldn't leave Kathy behind. Dad, of course, turned the boat around and pulled up next to us in the water. Bryan or Sandy was already pulling the ropes in. "We'll be right back," Dad said. Then our slug/snail boat screamed away like it was jet-powered. They went about a quarter of a mile, turned around, and came to pick us up. We got in the boat, and Dad took off. This boat was fast. Really fast. Of course, I asked what had happened. Evidently, there was a "stiff" spot in the throttle that offered enough resistance that it felt like a stop. Dad, probably also exasperated by the tortoise-like performance, had slammed the throttle hard when we hollered "HIT IT". He had pushed the throttle past the stiff spot and found that we had been running somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 throttle when we thought we were running at "full". That boat was a lot more fun after that. There were many times that, while skiing with friends, we had eight people in the boat and pulling three slalom skiers and still not running at full throttle. I have always wondered how that boat would have performed with the 135 on it, although it didn't need it. That boat could do an honest 60 mph with three or four people in it. One time, my friend Randy, his girlfriend, another acquaintance, and I found out that Dad had the boat out and decided to see if we could maybe make a ski run or two. We went down to the place that we always went skiing, and found Dad and the boat. After a little pleading, we took off in the boat for a little while so we might do a little skiing. I wanted to ski also, so Randy was driving the boat and I was skiing when we ran down the bayou. Randy turned around at the end of the bayou and opened it up. When we got to the other end, he decided to run down the bayou again and cranked the boat into a hard turn. The water was like glass, and I went to the outside of the turn. I was going so fast that the fin on my ski was vibrating and I could actually hear a high pitched buzzing. I realized that I was going way too fast right about the time I fell. I remember hitting the water three times before I stopped. The people in the boat told me that I did a flip each time I touched the water. When I came back to the surface after my "fall", I noticed that my ski was about 75 feet away. I started swimming toward my ski, and noticed that my toe felt funny. I raised my foot out of the water to investigate, and saw that blood was streaming from my big toe. Somehow, I had split it open. We gathered the ski and me, pulled in the rope, and hightailed it back to where we had parked, and where Dad was. Rather, where Dad was supposed to be. I guess we had been gone so long that he had headed back to the marina or something. We finally got the boat secured, and we piled into the car to go to the emergency room on base. We got there, only to find that they could not stitch me up unless I had a parent/guardian there, since I was still technically a minor. I spent lots of time on the phone trying to get hold of Mom or Dad. Finally, somebody came to the hospital and they put stitches in my toe. Those were the first stitches I had ever gotten. I only wish that they were the only ones that I would get during my life.
If Dad hadn't been so careful while breaking in the boat motor, would it have run as good as it did? Maybe, but probably not for as long. He was pretty good about taking care of his cars, too. I remember being in third grade and asking him what "power steering" did. We happened to have just pulled into our garage at the time. He tried to explain that the power of the engine helped make it easier to steer, but I didn't understand. So, while sitting in the garage with the engine running, he turned the steering wheel with one finger, first one way, then the other. He expressed worry about wearing the tires, but for the sake of my education, he did it anyway. Then he turned the engine off and showed me how difficult it was to turn the steering wheel, even with both hands. That seemed to satisfy me for the time being, but I do remember his concern about the tires.
When he would take me flying, he would stress the importance of a pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. I found it boring and repetitive, but later in my life I saw the importance of it. I was working for a company that built gyroplanes. Actually, we built a kit for other people to build their own aircraft. I wondered about the importance of inspecting the aircraft between flights, especially if it had only been on the ground for a few minutes. One of our aircraft had been out flying in the pattern, giving demo rides to a prospective customer, as well as to some of the employees who had "never been up". After one flight, the pilot made yet another inspection. He found that a support strut for the rotor head was failing. Gyroplanes are one of the safest types of aircraft, but the safety depends upon the rotor head. The entire weight of the aircraft hangs from it. If it fails, or control to it is lost, it can result in an uncontrolled landing (crash). Dad used to tell me that a landing was a "controlled crash", and that a crash was an "uncontrolled landing". There are any number of things that can go wrong (fail) on an aircraft, as well as a car, or even a power tool. Luckily, Dad always knew to take care of, and care about, these things.
Like I said, Dad was a man of many jobs. During his life he was: a truck driver, a fighter pilot and instructor, a "company pilot" flying a salesman around the region, a flying salesman (they got rid of the other guy), a janitorial supplies salesman, a used car salesman, an airplane salesman, a "paperboy", the owner of a paint store, a "soda-jerk", a short-order cook, a grandfather, a GREAT father, and a missionary. Seems like in most of those, he was trying to sell something! At times, he was even trying to "sell" ME! (Let me explain that one.) When I was living in South Florida (West Palm Beach area), Dad, who was living in Logan, Utah at the time, would frequently call me to tell me about all the welding jobs available in Utah. Many of the jobs were in areas that I had little experience in. I would politely listen, and never do anything about it. After many of these calls, I sent him a copy of my resume so that he would know just exactly what my qualifications were, and to "get him off my back", so to speak. Soon, I started getting calls from companies in Utah and Wyoming. Dad had copied my resume and distributed it to any company that had an ad posted. I took down a lot of information from a lot of companies, and told them all that unless they wanted to fly me out for an interview/test and return flight, they would have to wait until I had a bunch of "leads". To my surprise, I actually got enough prospects to warrant a flight to Utah. One interview/test was in Wyoming, so Dad let me borrow a car to drive there. I took the test, but didn't have good feelings about the job. It was out in the middle of nowhere, and I had a wife and soon-to-be-one year old son to think about. Dad offered to chauffeur me down to Salt Lake City and the surrounding area. One company (I remember their phone call: "Yes,. . .I have your resume in my hand and have no idea how I came to have it ") offered to help with relocation expenses if I would hire on with them. Done deal! Now I have been in Utah for 28 years, and I never would have ended up here if my Dad hadn't tried to "sell me". I guess Dad thought (or hoped) that I was like him. . .the best at what I chose to do. . .whatever that might be.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Go West, Young Man. . .Now Go East
By the age of 19, I had probably (by virtue of frequent moves and regular family vacations) already traveled more miles than most “civilians” would in a lifetime. Most of our travels had taken place by automobile, with the exceptions of traveling to Japan by boat, and returning by airplane. I had already criss-crossed the country countless times. So, long drives didn’t bother me, they were just a normal occurrence in my life. Until moving to Florida in late 1968, the longest I had ever lived in one location had been three years. Now, it was time for another trip. Dad had Judy’s Maverick hooked to the station wagon, and I was pulling the motorcycle on a trailer, and we headed west. We drove as a team, Dad leading the way. If he needed to change lanes, I would move over to that lane first, and serve as a “blocker” so that he could safely make the change. I managed to keep them in sight most of the way, although occasionally they might be as far as a mile ahead of me. There aren’t many hills to block the view in that part of the country. While passing through large cities, I tried to stay right on his tail, but I needn’t have worried; we weren’t going to be “changing highways” very much. As long as I could see that I was still on I-10, I knew I was headed the right direction, and I knew that if I got too far behind, Dad would pull over or slow down until he could once again see me “in his six”. While passing through Texas, I happened to notice something a little out of the ordinary in my rear-view mirror. Every now and then, it seemed like the motorcycle was leaning. Soon, it was leaning farther and farther to one side. Noticing that Dad was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me, I flashed my lights once and pulled over, knowing that he would eventually notice that I was not behind him and turn around. Being the observant fighter pilot that he was, he was pulling over even as I came to a stop. He had seen that I was pulling over, and that his bike was leaning. I got out to try and hold the bike up. One of the straps that had been holding the bike up had broken. I looked up the road and Dad was already running back to help me. We got the bike upright and evaluated the damage. The strap that had broken was too short to be of any use. There wasn’t enough to tie together and still be long enough to reach. Not wanting to be stranded, I was thinking of possible solutions. I remembered that I had a vinyl-covered cable with loops at each end. Leaving Dad to hold the bike up, I opened the trunk and hoped it would be easy to find. Luckily, it was near the “front” of the pile. Then, I hoped that it wouldn’t be too long. If it had been too short, we could have still used the broken straps to fill in the shortage, but being too long wouldn’t help us at all. It was a ¼” braided stainless steel cable inside a vinyl sheath. Cutting it was out of the question. As it turned out, the cable was EXACTLY the right length, and with a couple of padlocks we secured the ends to the trailer and motorcycle. Dad was impressed. The cable held, and we made the rest of the trip without incident.
Whenever we had traveled, Dad had planned our routes to include “potty” breaks, food stops, and lodging stops. “We’ll be stopping in Jackson for lunch”, he might say. And sure enough, we would arrive in Jackson right at lunchtime. Maybe the years of flight plans and briefings gave him the “to the minute” accuracy. My Aunt Jean once remarked, “If Sam tells you he will be there at 4:30 and he get to town at 4:00, I think he must sit at the outskirts for half an hour, so that he pulls in the driveway right at 4:30”. He was that good. (And, no, we never sat at the outskirts of town to kill time.)
Before we left Virginia, Dad had (of course) arranged for a job and a place to live. He was going to sell janitorial supplies. Not just brooms and mops, but floor treatments, waxes, and cleaning solutions. One of the “target customers” was schools, where high traffic could result in high wear, particularly in halls and (especially) gymnasiums. So, when we pulled up in front of the house we were to live in (we had, of course, driven straight to it) we couldn’t set up “housekeeping” until Dad had first applied a few of these floor treatments to the floors. He wanted to be able to tell the customers, from his own experience, how the products performed and whether they were easy or tricky to apply. After a few days, we were able to “move in”. One of the questions that Judy had asked was about the weather in Phoenix (we were actually in Glendale). Dad had told her that it was mostly dry, and that it “only rained a couple of times a year”. So, that first month gave us six rainstorms. (Judy chided Dad about it, saying that we had now gotten “three years of rain” and she hoped we wouldn’t die of thirst NEXT year.)
I filled my gas tank when we got settled, and tried to figure out where I could get a job. Welding jobs were either scarce, or required a higher level of skill (certifications) than I had at the time. I checked with some bicycle shops in the area, because I had been assembling bikes at the toy store and was pretty good at it and had my own tools. But, I just couldn’t seem to find a job. In retrospect, I don’t know that I looked that hard. I made that first tank of gas last for an entire month. I rode the motorcycle a lot while out “looking for employment”.
Much of my time was taken up with my baby sister Jenny. We had a back yard where I spent lots of time pulling her around in a cardboard box, or “throwing” her up in the air and catching her. Judy would frequently be in the kitchen and watch us through the window. Once, I threw Jenny high in the air, and tripped over my pant leg (I was wearing bell-bottoms) while she was “airborne”. It is said that “thought” processes happen at light-speed. This must be true, because I remember the following thoughts going through my head while Jenny was still in the air: “Oh GREAT! I’m falling down. Jenny is counting on me to catch her when she comes down. I won’t be there to catch her. Don’t panic! Oh, crap! Is she going to cry? Will she be hurt? Can I roll under her so she lands on me instead of the ground? This may hurt. That’s okay, better me than Jenny. Is Judy watching? Is she going to witness the “crash”? Is she going to be mad? Furious? Boy, this really sucks. Just when we were starting to get along. Where’s Jenny? I can do this. Come on, Roger, you’re fast. There she is, she’s coming down. Does she have those hard little shoes on? You’re gonna rip your pants. Is Judy watching? C’mon, arms out. Gotcha!” I had always been able to move fast, I had usually been the “last one standing” when we had played Dodgeball during school. How I did it, I don’t know, but I caught Jenny just like I always did. A quick look at the window showed Judy just like she always looked. I decided that maybe it was time for a little break, and collapsed on the grass. After my heart returned to normal beating, we played some more with the cardboard box. It was safer. Years later, I asked Judy if she remembered seeing my “ballet” in the yard that day. Neither she or Jenny ever knew how close it had been. I guess I inherited Dad’s quick reflexes.
Sometime, during his youth, Dad had injured his shoulder joint. For some reason, his being thrown from a horse and hitting a fence comes to mind. But that could be wrong. Anyway, his shoulder would come out of the socket. Usually at a bad time (is there ever a good time?). Once, it happened while we were on vacation. We were camping, and had gone down to the lake to swim. We had all worked our way out into the water, and Dad decided that he would dive over into the water. He arched over and disappeared. When he broke the surface seconds later, he was holding his arm over his head. Evidently, he had gotten his arm in just the “right” position, and his shoulder joint separated. This was the first time I had seen it happen, and I was scared. There happened to be a large man out swimming, and he came to assist. They got his shoulder back in after a little “wrestling”. Another time, Dad was water skiing and fell. When he realized that his shoulder was out again, he was so angry that he started thrashing around and was able to slip it back in while still in the water. I asked him if being pulled around on skis by his arms was a good idea. He replied that, as long as he didn’t fall, the “tension” on his shoulder held it in. I don’t know how many times he threw his shoulder out, over the years, but he said that every time it happened, his shoulder got “weaker” and easier to pop out. And if he could get it “back in” quickly, the damage was minimal. However, if it took a long time, the muscles would start to swell, and make it harder to work it back in.
Dad’s shoulder went out shortly after moving to Arizona. I tried, and Judy tried, to help him get it back in. But, out of nervousness, fear, and inexperience, I was unable to help him guide it back in place. By this time, his shoulder muscles were swelling, and it was time to go to the doctor. We got Dad to the station wagon and Judy drove us to the hospital at Luke AFB. They gave Dad a muscle relaxer pill to swallow, and we waited. They gave him another pill, and we waited some more. They finally gave him an injection and we waited a little bit more. Both of the pills and the shot seemed to hit all at once. The doctor was able to easily slip the joint back in. Dad, however, felt none of it. He was off in “La La Land”. After bandaging and slinging his arm, they sent us home. Dad sang the whole way home. I guess it was singing, anyway. He was rather unintelligible. We got home and put him to bed where he slept through the night, and probably part of the next morning.
During this time, and the final couple of months in Virginia, the girl who had “dumped” me had started to miss me. I had been corresponding with her on a regular basis. I had stopped in to see her while in Florida for the holidays, and our “relationship” had warmed up a little. So, that may have been a factor in my half-hearted attempts to find a job. Around the end of that January, I received a phone call. It was from my former employer in Florida. “Come on home, we need you”.
I gathered my belongings and stuffed them into my car. I had “rescued” a couple of miniature billiard tables from the trash while working at the toy store in Virginia. I tried desperately to fit one or both of them into my car, but my trunk “opening” was just one inch too small to fit even the smaller one in. I pulled out the passenger seat and folded it up in the back seat in an effort to make it fit, but to no avail. Sadly, I was to leave my pool tables behind. Dad handed me a gas credit card, and enough money to eat and sleep on, and just a little extra. We shook hands, hugged, and I was on my way. There were good things and bad things about the trips between Florida and Arizona. The good part was that I didn’t have to do much navigating. I just got on the interstate and headed (depending on which state I was headed for) east or west until I got there. The bad part was that I was always heading east or west. Which put the sun in my eyes for half a day, every day. On the trip out to Arizona, I solved this dilemma by wearing my cutting goggles while driving into the sun. They were basically really dark sunglass lenses. They cut the glare quite well. They had worked fine on the way out, and I again put them on when the sun got into the windshield, which was the first half of the day. I would take them off after the sun got “over the roof”, and maybe put them on as the sun filled my rearview mirror. It was kind of lonely out on the road, and I had gone through all of my 8-track tapes at least twice by the time I got into Texas. I filled my time by trying to analyze occupations of people that either passed me, or that I passed. I remember one car distinctly: a Cadillac with three “carousels” of sunglasses in the back seat. I remember it because I saw it more than once. It passed me, and I noticed the sunglasses. Then I passed it while it was pulled over on the side of the road to pick up a hitch-hiker, then it passed me again a few miles on down the road. Close to the next large town, I saw a man standing on the side of the road. He had a duffle bag, some new sunglasses, and some crutches. I pulled over, and offered him a ride. I apologized for the missing passenger seat (it was still folded up in the back seat), but told him he was welcome to “stretch out on the floor” if he wanted to. He tossed his duffle in and climbed in after it. He was able to use his duffle as a backrest, and stretch his legs out. He later told me that it was the most comfortable ride that he had gotten. His name was Chip and he was headed for Houston, and would appreciate riding any miles I was willing to drive in that direction. He had a bad leg, I don’t remember exactly what the problem was, though. Enjoying his company, I detoured off my planned route and drove him to Houston, where we finally found the trailer park that his sister lived in. I planned to drop him off, and go find a motel. They (his family and in-laws) would not hear of it. They fed me, and put me up for the night on their couch. I awoke early the next morning, had breakfast with them, and headed for the gas station next to the trailer park. This was in early 1974, which was a time of rationing and limits at many gas stations. I pulled up to the pump, and a man I had met the night before (a relative of the hitch-hiker) came out to pump my gas. I noticed a sign that said “$2.00 limit” on the pump. Figuring that I would try to “fill up” after I got out of Houston, I told him to give me what he could. I watched the meter on the gas pump hit $1.00, then approach $2.00. Then it went to $3.00 and beyond. The guy filled my tank completely! Worried that I might not have that much cash, I waited for him to come to my window. “That’ll be $2.00, please”. I tried to point out that I owed him much more than that, and he looked me in the eye and said, ”I can’t sell more than two dollars to anybody. Thanks for bringing Chip home.” He winked at me, shook my hand, took my two dollars, and I was on my way.
I marveled at my good fortune as I drove. Not for getting eight or nine dollars worth of gas for only TWO dollars, but that there were still people like that in the world. People not afraid to ask for, or to give help. They felt lucky because their brother had been returned to them safely. I felt lucky just to have met them. My streak of “luck” didn’t end there. Later in the day, I passed through a very small town and decided to find a gas station. I pulled in, and noticed that the pumps listed the price of gas as $.329 a gallon. This was when gas was selling for $.65 to $.75, or higher. I filled my tank and went in to pay for my gas. I commented to the woman at the register that I thought her pumps must be wrong, and was prepared to pay the “real” price. “Well, they’ve never come out to change my pumps, and I can’t sell it all,” she said. “In fact, they’re going to cut my allotment because I can’t sell all that I have been getting”. Right then, I wished that I had a 50-gallon drum in the trunk. Later that day, a station wagon passed me. There was a little kid in the back and he was staring and pointing at me. Soon, another kid joined in. Worried that I might be getting a flat or something, I prepared to pull over. I glanced up at my mirror to see if anyone was behind me, and started laughing. I had forgotten to take my cutting goggles off after the sun got high enough! I must have looked like a mad scientist or something. I drove the rest of the way to Florida that day. I drove alongside the beach, and rolled down my windows and inhaled deeply. I was almost home. I drove through town, pulled into a driveway, and got out of my car. I stretched, then walked into the only house in town where I didn’t have to knock on the door.
Whenever we had traveled, Dad had planned our routes to include “potty” breaks, food stops, and lodging stops. “We’ll be stopping in Jackson for lunch”, he might say. And sure enough, we would arrive in Jackson right at lunchtime. Maybe the years of flight plans and briefings gave him the “to the minute” accuracy. My Aunt Jean once remarked, “If Sam tells you he will be there at 4:30 and he get to town at 4:00, I think he must sit at the outskirts for half an hour, so that he pulls in the driveway right at 4:30”. He was that good. (And, no, we never sat at the outskirts of town to kill time.)
Before we left Virginia, Dad had (of course) arranged for a job and a place to live. He was going to sell janitorial supplies. Not just brooms and mops, but floor treatments, waxes, and cleaning solutions. One of the “target customers” was schools, where high traffic could result in high wear, particularly in halls and (especially) gymnasiums. So, when we pulled up in front of the house we were to live in (we had, of course, driven straight to it) we couldn’t set up “housekeeping” until Dad had first applied a few of these floor treatments to the floors. He wanted to be able to tell the customers, from his own experience, how the products performed and whether they were easy or tricky to apply. After a few days, we were able to “move in”. One of the questions that Judy had asked was about the weather in Phoenix (we were actually in Glendale). Dad had told her that it was mostly dry, and that it “only rained a couple of times a year”. So, that first month gave us six rainstorms. (Judy chided Dad about it, saying that we had now gotten “three years of rain” and she hoped we wouldn’t die of thirst NEXT year.)
I filled my gas tank when we got settled, and tried to figure out where I could get a job. Welding jobs were either scarce, or required a higher level of skill (certifications) than I had at the time. I checked with some bicycle shops in the area, because I had been assembling bikes at the toy store and was pretty good at it and had my own tools. But, I just couldn’t seem to find a job. In retrospect, I don’t know that I looked that hard. I made that first tank of gas last for an entire month. I rode the motorcycle a lot while out “looking for employment”.
Much of my time was taken up with my baby sister Jenny. We had a back yard where I spent lots of time pulling her around in a cardboard box, or “throwing” her up in the air and catching her. Judy would frequently be in the kitchen and watch us through the window. Once, I threw Jenny high in the air, and tripped over my pant leg (I was wearing bell-bottoms) while she was “airborne”. It is said that “thought” processes happen at light-speed. This must be true, because I remember the following thoughts going through my head while Jenny was still in the air: “Oh GREAT! I’m falling down. Jenny is counting on me to catch her when she comes down. I won’t be there to catch her. Don’t panic! Oh, crap! Is she going to cry? Will she be hurt? Can I roll under her so she lands on me instead of the ground? This may hurt. That’s okay, better me than Jenny. Is Judy watching? Is she going to witness the “crash”? Is she going to be mad? Furious? Boy, this really sucks. Just when we were starting to get along. Where’s Jenny? I can do this. Come on, Roger, you’re fast. There she is, she’s coming down. Does she have those hard little shoes on? You’re gonna rip your pants. Is Judy watching? C’mon, arms out. Gotcha!” I had always been able to move fast, I had usually been the “last one standing” when we had played Dodgeball during school. How I did it, I don’t know, but I caught Jenny just like I always did. A quick look at the window showed Judy just like she always looked. I decided that maybe it was time for a little break, and collapsed on the grass. After my heart returned to normal beating, we played some more with the cardboard box. It was safer. Years later, I asked Judy if she remembered seeing my “ballet” in the yard that day. Neither she or Jenny ever knew how close it had been. I guess I inherited Dad’s quick reflexes.
Sometime, during his youth, Dad had injured his shoulder joint. For some reason, his being thrown from a horse and hitting a fence comes to mind. But that could be wrong. Anyway, his shoulder would come out of the socket. Usually at a bad time (is there ever a good time?). Once, it happened while we were on vacation. We were camping, and had gone down to the lake to swim. We had all worked our way out into the water, and Dad decided that he would dive over into the water. He arched over and disappeared. When he broke the surface seconds later, he was holding his arm over his head. Evidently, he had gotten his arm in just the “right” position, and his shoulder joint separated. This was the first time I had seen it happen, and I was scared. There happened to be a large man out swimming, and he came to assist. They got his shoulder back in after a little “wrestling”. Another time, Dad was water skiing and fell. When he realized that his shoulder was out again, he was so angry that he started thrashing around and was able to slip it back in while still in the water. I asked him if being pulled around on skis by his arms was a good idea. He replied that, as long as he didn’t fall, the “tension” on his shoulder held it in. I don’t know how many times he threw his shoulder out, over the years, but he said that every time it happened, his shoulder got “weaker” and easier to pop out. And if he could get it “back in” quickly, the damage was minimal. However, if it took a long time, the muscles would start to swell, and make it harder to work it back in.
Dad’s shoulder went out shortly after moving to Arizona. I tried, and Judy tried, to help him get it back in. But, out of nervousness, fear, and inexperience, I was unable to help him guide it back in place. By this time, his shoulder muscles were swelling, and it was time to go to the doctor. We got Dad to the station wagon and Judy drove us to the hospital at Luke AFB. They gave Dad a muscle relaxer pill to swallow, and we waited. They gave him another pill, and we waited some more. They finally gave him an injection and we waited a little bit more. Both of the pills and the shot seemed to hit all at once. The doctor was able to easily slip the joint back in. Dad, however, felt none of it. He was off in “La La Land”. After bandaging and slinging his arm, they sent us home. Dad sang the whole way home. I guess it was singing, anyway. He was rather unintelligible. We got home and put him to bed where he slept through the night, and probably part of the next morning.
During this time, and the final couple of months in Virginia, the girl who had “dumped” me had started to miss me. I had been corresponding with her on a regular basis. I had stopped in to see her while in Florida for the holidays, and our “relationship” had warmed up a little. So, that may have been a factor in my half-hearted attempts to find a job. Around the end of that January, I received a phone call. It was from my former employer in Florida. “Come on home, we need you”.
I gathered my belongings and stuffed them into my car. I had “rescued” a couple of miniature billiard tables from the trash while working at the toy store in Virginia. I tried desperately to fit one or both of them into my car, but my trunk “opening” was just one inch too small to fit even the smaller one in. I pulled out the passenger seat and folded it up in the back seat in an effort to make it fit, but to no avail. Sadly, I was to leave my pool tables behind. Dad handed me a gas credit card, and enough money to eat and sleep on, and just a little extra. We shook hands, hugged, and I was on my way. There were good things and bad things about the trips between Florida and Arizona. The good part was that I didn’t have to do much navigating. I just got on the interstate and headed (depending on which state I was headed for) east or west until I got there. The bad part was that I was always heading east or west. Which put the sun in my eyes for half a day, every day. On the trip out to Arizona, I solved this dilemma by wearing my cutting goggles while driving into the sun. They were basically really dark sunglass lenses. They cut the glare quite well. They had worked fine on the way out, and I again put them on when the sun got into the windshield, which was the first half of the day. I would take them off after the sun got “over the roof”, and maybe put them on as the sun filled my rearview mirror. It was kind of lonely out on the road, and I had gone through all of my 8-track tapes at least twice by the time I got into Texas. I filled my time by trying to analyze occupations of people that either passed me, or that I passed. I remember one car distinctly: a Cadillac with three “carousels” of sunglasses in the back seat. I remember it because I saw it more than once. It passed me, and I noticed the sunglasses. Then I passed it while it was pulled over on the side of the road to pick up a hitch-hiker, then it passed me again a few miles on down the road. Close to the next large town, I saw a man standing on the side of the road. He had a duffle bag, some new sunglasses, and some crutches. I pulled over, and offered him a ride. I apologized for the missing passenger seat (it was still folded up in the back seat), but told him he was welcome to “stretch out on the floor” if he wanted to. He tossed his duffle in and climbed in after it. He was able to use his duffle as a backrest, and stretch his legs out. He later told me that it was the most comfortable ride that he had gotten. His name was Chip and he was headed for Houston, and would appreciate riding any miles I was willing to drive in that direction. He had a bad leg, I don’t remember exactly what the problem was, though. Enjoying his company, I detoured off my planned route and drove him to Houston, where we finally found the trailer park that his sister lived in. I planned to drop him off, and go find a motel. They (his family and in-laws) would not hear of it. They fed me, and put me up for the night on their couch. I awoke early the next morning, had breakfast with them, and headed for the gas station next to the trailer park. This was in early 1974, which was a time of rationing and limits at many gas stations. I pulled up to the pump, and a man I had met the night before (a relative of the hitch-hiker) came out to pump my gas. I noticed a sign that said “$2.00 limit” on the pump. Figuring that I would try to “fill up” after I got out of Houston, I told him to give me what he could. I watched the meter on the gas pump hit $1.00, then approach $2.00. Then it went to $3.00 and beyond. The guy filled my tank completely! Worried that I might not have that much cash, I waited for him to come to my window. “That’ll be $2.00, please”. I tried to point out that I owed him much more than that, and he looked me in the eye and said, ”I can’t sell more than two dollars to anybody. Thanks for bringing Chip home.” He winked at me, shook my hand, took my two dollars, and I was on my way.
I marveled at my good fortune as I drove. Not for getting eight or nine dollars worth of gas for only TWO dollars, but that there were still people like that in the world. People not afraid to ask for, or to give help. They felt lucky because their brother had been returned to them safely. I felt lucky just to have met them. My streak of “luck” didn’t end there. Later in the day, I passed through a very small town and decided to find a gas station. I pulled in, and noticed that the pumps listed the price of gas as $.329 a gallon. This was when gas was selling for $.65 to $.75, or higher. I filled my tank and went in to pay for my gas. I commented to the woman at the register that I thought her pumps must be wrong, and was prepared to pay the “real” price. “Well, they’ve never come out to change my pumps, and I can’t sell it all,” she said. “In fact, they’re going to cut my allotment because I can’t sell all that I have been getting”. Right then, I wished that I had a 50-gallon drum in the trunk. Later that day, a station wagon passed me. There was a little kid in the back and he was staring and pointing at me. Soon, another kid joined in. Worried that I might be getting a flat or something, I prepared to pull over. I glanced up at my mirror to see if anyone was behind me, and started laughing. I had forgotten to take my cutting goggles off after the sun got high enough! I must have looked like a mad scientist or something. I drove the rest of the way to Florida that day. I drove alongside the beach, and rolled down my windows and inhaled deeply. I was almost home. I drove through town, pulled into a driveway, and got out of my car. I stretched, then walked into the only house in town where I didn’t have to knock on the door.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Chantilly, Virginia
Dad and Judy lived in Chantilly, Virginia. I had secured my job at Toys “R” Us in Fairfax, about 15 minutes away. But, since I had left my car in Florida, I didn’t have transportation to and from work. Dad and Judy both worked in the Pentagon, so I couldn’t “bum” a ride with either of them. Once again, it was Dad to the rescue. He had a Honda 500 motorcycle in his garage that he generously (although possibly semi-grudgingly) offered me the use of for my commute. Judy used to tease Dad about his “infatuation” with the motorcycle. Evidently, Dad had been in the garage and was wiping the dust off of the tank when Judy came out into the garage. She “accused” Dad of “petting” his motorcycle. This had happened before I went up to Virginia. And she didn’t let him live it down. This period of time, in Virginia, was the first I had ever spent much time around my stepmother. Hearing her tease my Dad about petting his motorcycle, and other things kind of “rubbed me wrong” for some reason. I don’t know if I was being protective of him or not, but I wasn’t used to hearing or seeing him “attacked” in any way. At least not by someone else. Maybe I figured that I should be the one kidding around with him. After all, he WAS my Dad. So, my initial impressions of my stepmom were that, basically, she was a smart-aleck. And, like the stereotypical westerns, there “wasn’t enough room” for the both of us, because I was also a smart-aleck. I would trade “barbs” with her frequently, and a lot of times I probably got (out of frustration) a little meaner than I should have. I probably said some hurtful things to her that I will never be able to take back, and I will always regret that. But, in some ways, I shouldn’t have worried about it. Because, just when I thought I might have gotten the last word (or “zinger”), she would slam-dunk me with a better one. It used to frustrate the hell out of me. If she ever lost her temper with me during these exchanges, she never showed it. I was “outclassed” from the very start. I think some of my frustration came from the fact that she was only eleven years older than me: “too old to be my friend, and too young to boss me around”. I turned 19 while in Virginia, which made her 30.
I rode the motorcycle to and from work for a short time, but really missed my car. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, whether I flew back down to Florida, or we all drove down together, but I was able to get my car and drive it back to Virginia. Having my own “wheels” freed me up a little. I was able to explore the area a little, on my days off from the toy store, and meet people that I didn’t work with or live with. I tried to develop a social life.
One evening Dad tried to help me in that respect. My stepmother was working as a secretary in the Pentagon, and she brought one of her co-workers home after work to have dinner with us. Her name was Rene G., and she was older than me by probably 7 or 8 years. I remember thinking that she was very attractive, for a “grown woman”. At dinner, Dad tried to stimulate conversation (and, I think, interest) between Rene and me. Looking back, I think the “relationship” was doomed from the start. She was polite, yet easy to talk with, and had a sense of humor. I tried to appeal to her sense of humor. After all, I considered myself an entertaining person. I remember telling her a lot of jokes regarding (in the interest of being politically correct) people from Poland. I told her some of my “best ones”, and she laughed at all of them. I figured I was “making points” with her, when she said she had one for me. “What is black and blue and sits in a corner crying?” she asked me. I racked my brain, but could not come up with the correct answer. She looked me in the eye, and said, “The next S.O.B. that tells a Polish joke.” I soon found out that her last name was of Polish origin (I can’t remember the exact pronunciation or spelling) and all those brownie points had gone down the drain. I think Dad and Judy did the right thing by letting me put my foot in my mouth. Yes, they could have given me “warning”, but I probably would have ended up embarrassing myself some other way. It knocked me down a notch, and I deserved it.
Another time, Dad and Judy invited a couple to the house for dinner. I believe that they were both Officers who were also stationed at the Pentagon. I remember them well, although I don’t remember the man’s name. But the woman’s name was Yvonne, (and to this day I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen), and she was Black. Whether this white man and black woman were a “couple” or not, I don’t know. But they were both really nice people, and they obliged themselves to include me into their “grown up” conversations at the table.
One of the best things about being in Virginia was my little sister “Jenny”. Jennifer Ellen was a few months past her first birthday when I moved up there. She became my best friend and favorite pastime. She would call for me when she woke up from her naps, and in the morning. The house we were in had a vaulted ceiling in the living room, and I would throw her as high as I could in the air, and catch her when she came down. Then I would hold her at arm’s length, and she would start kicking impatiently, as if to say “Come on, do it again!” This “game” was played at every opportunity for the duration of my stay with Dad and Judy.
Dad was due to “pin on his Eagles”, or be promoted to (bird) Colonel, sometime in the first part of 1974. However, this promotion would mean that the only thing he would “fly” would be a desk. Rather than having his “wings clipped”, he decided to retire from the Air Force at the end of 1973. In the period leading up to his retirement, he investigated different avenues of employment/income to supplement his pension. One of these involved multilevel marketing, where someone recruited someone else to sell a product, and both parties would receive a portion of the proceeds. There are many of them out there (the most recognizable being AMWAY), and most of them are a legitimate means of generating a decent income, depending upon the “level” of one’s involvement. Dad didn’t want to waste time working his way up from being a “sales person”, so he invested some money into “inventory” so that he could start right out as a “distributor”. Right about the time he did this, one of the major “news magazines” ran an article about the “multilevel marketing” schemes. Apparently, there were (are) a lot of them out there, and not all of them seemed to deliver the desired results, due to: inferior product/customer service quality and/or, sometimes, out-and-out fraudulent business practices. Since the last thing my father would have ever done would be to give anyone the impression of having been defrauded, he lost faith in his “business venture”. This resulted in a garage full of cleaning products which, while being quality products that performed as advertised, he couldn’t market with a clean conscience. We used the products, and they worked. But Dad ended up donating the entire lot to a rest home, or someplace like that, when it came time to leave Virginia.
Dad decided that after his retirement we would go to Phoenix, Arizona. Prior to these events, other things had to be addressed: how to get three cars (I decided that I would go with them) and a motorcycle from Virginia to Arizona, whether to move the “soap” or donate it, what kind of employment to seek, etc. Getting the Honda to Phoenix turned out to be pretty easy. Dad would buy a motorcycle trailer, and we would install a trailer hitch on my car. Dad, Judy and Jen would tow Judy’s car behind the station wagon. We got the motorcycle trailer and assembled it in the garage. When we got it put together, we set about the task of installing the hitch on my car. We were encountering some difficulty in attaching it, as some holes needed to be enlarged to facilitate the bolts required. I told Dad that we really needed a 3/8” drill bit to ream out a couple of holes. We had every size except for the one we needed. This was in December, and it was cold in the garage. Judy came out to the garage to check on us, or tell us that dinner was ready, or something. She overheard us talking about needing a 3/8” drill. She disappeared for a few moments, and returned with a box. It contained a brand-new 3/8” (capacity) electric drill. It was to have been a Christmas present for Dad, but she gave it to him “early”. Not wanting to hurt her feelings or embarrass her, neither one of us bothered to point out that it was a 3/8” drill bit that we really needed. (By this point in my life, I guess I was coming to the realization that Judy wasn't really that bad. In fact, hurting her feelings never entered my mind). We somehow reamed the holes out and got the hitch installed. We struggled with the wiring harness for the trailer lights, but eventually everything was connected correctly. A few days later, we hooked up the trailer, loaded the motorcycle on it, and I headed to Florida for Christmas, prior to continuing on to Arizona. Dad and Judy would leave a few days later, and we would “caravan” to Phoenix after Christmas. I remember driving through West Virginia. As I crossed into one county, I passed a police car, probably a County Sheriff. I glanced in the mirror, and sure enough, they had pulled out after me. Granted, I probably presented an unusual sight: a young man with shoulder-length hair driving a muscle car, towing a “full dress” motorcycle. I got a little nervous when I noticed the deputy riding “shotgun” in the car had reached down and come up with a shotgun whose stock he rested on his knee. It stayed there the entire trip through the county. At the “other end” of the county, they stopped and turned around. I’m glad I didn’t have to stop for any reason while passing through the county. I drove the rest of the way “home” non-stop without incident. It took exactly 24 hours to go from Chantilly, Virginia to Fort Walton Beach, Florida. While in Florida for the holidays, the weather was good. Perfect, in fact, for motorcycle riding. When I got to Mom’s house, I got the bike off the trailer and rode it for the week or so that I was there. After Christmas, we put the bike back on the trailer and headed for Phoenix.
I rode the motorcycle to and from work for a short time, but really missed my car. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, whether I flew back down to Florida, or we all drove down together, but I was able to get my car and drive it back to Virginia. Having my own “wheels” freed me up a little. I was able to explore the area a little, on my days off from the toy store, and meet people that I didn’t work with or live with. I tried to develop a social life.
One evening Dad tried to help me in that respect. My stepmother was working as a secretary in the Pentagon, and she brought one of her co-workers home after work to have dinner with us. Her name was Rene G., and she was older than me by probably 7 or 8 years. I remember thinking that she was very attractive, for a “grown woman”. At dinner, Dad tried to stimulate conversation (and, I think, interest) between Rene and me. Looking back, I think the “relationship” was doomed from the start. She was polite, yet easy to talk with, and had a sense of humor. I tried to appeal to her sense of humor. After all, I considered myself an entertaining person. I remember telling her a lot of jokes regarding (in the interest of being politically correct) people from Poland. I told her some of my “best ones”, and she laughed at all of them. I figured I was “making points” with her, when she said she had one for me. “What is black and blue and sits in a corner crying?” she asked me. I racked my brain, but could not come up with the correct answer. She looked me in the eye, and said, “The next S.O.B. that tells a Polish joke.” I soon found out that her last name was of Polish origin (I can’t remember the exact pronunciation or spelling) and all those brownie points had gone down the drain. I think Dad and Judy did the right thing by letting me put my foot in my mouth. Yes, they could have given me “warning”, but I probably would have ended up embarrassing myself some other way. It knocked me down a notch, and I deserved it.
Another time, Dad and Judy invited a couple to the house for dinner. I believe that they were both Officers who were also stationed at the Pentagon. I remember them well, although I don’t remember the man’s name. But the woman’s name was Yvonne, (and to this day I still think she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen), and she was Black. Whether this white man and black woman were a “couple” or not, I don’t know. But they were both really nice people, and they obliged themselves to include me into their “grown up” conversations at the table.
One of the best things about being in Virginia was my little sister “Jenny”. Jennifer Ellen was a few months past her first birthday when I moved up there. She became my best friend and favorite pastime. She would call for me when she woke up from her naps, and in the morning. The house we were in had a vaulted ceiling in the living room, and I would throw her as high as I could in the air, and catch her when she came down. Then I would hold her at arm’s length, and she would start kicking impatiently, as if to say “Come on, do it again!” This “game” was played at every opportunity for the duration of my stay with Dad and Judy.
Dad was due to “pin on his Eagles”, or be promoted to (bird) Colonel, sometime in the first part of 1974. However, this promotion would mean that the only thing he would “fly” would be a desk. Rather than having his “wings clipped”, he decided to retire from the Air Force at the end of 1973. In the period leading up to his retirement, he investigated different avenues of employment/income to supplement his pension. One of these involved multilevel marketing, where someone recruited someone else to sell a product, and both parties would receive a portion of the proceeds. There are many of them out there (the most recognizable being AMWAY), and most of them are a legitimate means of generating a decent income, depending upon the “level” of one’s involvement. Dad didn’t want to waste time working his way up from being a “sales person”, so he invested some money into “inventory” so that he could start right out as a “distributor”. Right about the time he did this, one of the major “news magazines” ran an article about the “multilevel marketing” schemes. Apparently, there were (are) a lot of them out there, and not all of them seemed to deliver the desired results, due to: inferior product/customer service quality and/or, sometimes, out-and-out fraudulent business practices. Since the last thing my father would have ever done would be to give anyone the impression of having been defrauded, he lost faith in his “business venture”. This resulted in a garage full of cleaning products which, while being quality products that performed as advertised, he couldn’t market with a clean conscience. We used the products, and they worked. But Dad ended up donating the entire lot to a rest home, or someplace like that, when it came time to leave Virginia.
Dad decided that after his retirement we would go to Phoenix, Arizona. Prior to these events, other things had to be addressed: how to get three cars (I decided that I would go with them) and a motorcycle from Virginia to Arizona, whether to move the “soap” or donate it, what kind of employment to seek, etc. Getting the Honda to Phoenix turned out to be pretty easy. Dad would buy a motorcycle trailer, and we would install a trailer hitch on my car. Dad, Judy and Jen would tow Judy’s car behind the station wagon. We got the motorcycle trailer and assembled it in the garage. When we got it put together, we set about the task of installing the hitch on my car. We were encountering some difficulty in attaching it, as some holes needed to be enlarged to facilitate the bolts required. I told Dad that we really needed a 3/8” drill bit to ream out a couple of holes. We had every size except for the one we needed. This was in December, and it was cold in the garage. Judy came out to the garage to check on us, or tell us that dinner was ready, or something. She overheard us talking about needing a 3/8” drill. She disappeared for a few moments, and returned with a box. It contained a brand-new 3/8” (capacity) electric drill. It was to have been a Christmas present for Dad, but she gave it to him “early”. Not wanting to hurt her feelings or embarrass her, neither one of us bothered to point out that it was a 3/8” drill bit that we really needed. (By this point in my life, I guess I was coming to the realization that Judy wasn't really that bad. In fact, hurting her feelings never entered my mind). We somehow reamed the holes out and got the hitch installed. We struggled with the wiring harness for the trailer lights, but eventually everything was connected correctly. A few days later, we hooked up the trailer, loaded the motorcycle on it, and I headed to Florida for Christmas, prior to continuing on to Arizona. Dad and Judy would leave a few days later, and we would “caravan” to Phoenix after Christmas. I remember driving through West Virginia. As I crossed into one county, I passed a police car, probably a County Sheriff. I glanced in the mirror, and sure enough, they had pulled out after me. Granted, I probably presented an unusual sight: a young man with shoulder-length hair driving a muscle car, towing a “full dress” motorcycle. I got a little nervous when I noticed the deputy riding “shotgun” in the car had reached down and come up with a shotgun whose stock he rested on his knee. It stayed there the entire trip through the county. At the “other end” of the county, they stopped and turned around. I’m glad I didn’t have to stop for any reason while passing through the county. I drove the rest of the way “home” non-stop without incident. It took exactly 24 hours to go from Chantilly, Virginia to Fort Walton Beach, Florida. While in Florida for the holidays, the weather was good. Perfect, in fact, for motorcycle riding. When I got to Mom’s house, I got the bike off the trailer and rode it for the week or so that I was there. After Christmas, we put the bike back on the trailer and headed for Phoenix.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Two Weddings and Two Funerals
I met my current (and last) wife when, after the disastrous DUI incident, I moved into a small fourplex (2 up, 2 down). I lived in one of the downstairs apartments. They were “semi-basement” apartments. The upstairs apartments had a balcony, and I had a “patio” which was probably three or four times as big as the balconies. I remember when the woman upstairs moved in. Actually, I remember her two daughters moving in. One appeared to be around five years old, and the other could have been anywhere from eight to twelve years older than the little one. I didn’t see much of the woman, she apparently worked somewhere. And when she was home, she kept to herself. She didn’t have a lot of visitors. That was about all I knew about her. One day, there was a knock on my door. When I opened the door, there were the two girls from upstairs. The little one had a really grumpy expression on her face, and the older one appeared to be forcing her to stay on my doorstep. The older one said (to the little one), “Go on, tell him!” Evidently, the little girl had dropped or thrown a bottle off her balcony and it had broken all over the cement patio. The older girl had brought her down to “clean it up”. Somewhat amused, I noticed that the little girl was barefoot. I told them that I would clean it up and to not worry about it. That was my introduction to Angela and her big sister, Hilarie. Possibly, because I hadn’t made (or allowed) her to clean up the broken glass, Angela soon became my friend. And through her, and her (sometimes non-stop) chatterings, I learned about her family: her mom wasn’t married, her name was Janet and she worked in Salt Lake, she didn’t have a boyfriend, etc. Because “Janet” worked all day, Hilarie was left with the responsibility to keep an eye on Angie after school. And, I must admit, she did a darn good job.
One time, one of the other tenants in the building scheduled a barbecue. I planned on bringing something to cook, and wondered if the shy lady upstairs would like to come. I went upstairs, knocked on the door, and when the lady (Janet) opened the door, I said, “Barbecue tonight, be there or be square”, or something to that effect. I finally convinced her that she needed to come. Janet and I became friends, then good friends. We spent a lot of time together. I would get up in the morning, and call her so that she could come down for a cup of coffee. But, I made it “clear” that I wasn’t looking for a “girlfriend”. After two failed marriages, I wasn’t ready to make any commitments. I knew that she cared for me a great deal, and in an effort to “sort things out” in my mind, I moved into Salt Lake City, about 10 miles or so from her. As it turned out, we saw each other more after I moved away. I lived in SLC for almost a year, then decided that I couldn’t outrun fate. I asked her to marry me, and as of this writing, we have been married for sixteen years. Our wedding was just a small one in one of the auxiliary rooms at the church. Her mother and brothers, my ex-mother-in-law, and our 5 children made up the “wedding party”. As we had a relatively short engagement period, a month or less, there really wasn’t time to get anyone from my family out to Utah for the wedding. So Janet had never “met” any of my family. She had talked to all of them on the phone at various times, but had never “been in the same room”. After we had been married for just over a year, my brother got married. We drove to Texas for the wedding. The whole way there, Janet was nervous. Repeated queries of “What if they don’t like me?” and similar questions plagued me the entire trip. I constantly assured her that my family already liked her and accepted her. She mellowed out a little, but was especially scared to meet Dad. She had heard some of the stories from my youth, and figured (mistakenly) that he was a really strict, no-nonsense, military man. She would say, half-jokingly, “Should I hug him or salute him?” We finally arrived at the motel where everyone was staying. As we were opening the door to the lobby, to find out where the family was, my sister Kathy walked around the corner. She led us back to the room where the family was. When we walked into the room, not only was my family there, but my Uncle John and Aunt Jean (Dad’s brother and sister) as well. Somewhat overwhelmed, Janet was introduced to everyone, and when she finally met Dad, all of her concerns and worries evaporated almost immediately. She was accepted, without exception, into the family at once. We met Bryan’s bride, Lesli, who probably had shared some similar concerns prior to meeting the whole family. Our trip back to Utah the next day was different than the trip out. Janet was much more relaxed, and maybe a little sheepish over her previous concerns about meeting the family, and especially Dad.
In the summer of 1995, Dad organized a family reunion in Florida. Our first grandchild was born a week or so before we left for Florida, so Brian, her son, did not go with us. The logistics of getting the other six of us there (Janet and myself, Angie and Hilarie, and my sons Jared and Logan) got worked out in time, and we boarded a plane for New Orleans where we rented a car and drove the rest of the way to the Sunshine State. Dad had rented two houses on the beach for the week-long reunion. Janet and I, with our family, stayed in one house while Bryan’s family and Sandy’s family stayed in the other one. All the “meetings” and communal activities also took place at the other house. The reunion happened to coincide with Dad’s birthday. We all lined up and one by one, gave Dad/Grandpa a birthday hug. As soon as we had done that, we would immediately run to the back of the line and do it again. I think Dad must have gotten well over a hundred hugs from 20-30 people. Looking back, we probably wore him out, but he never complained about it. It was probably during the reunion that Dad and Hilarie got to spend some quality time together. I remember that one time Dad had to go somewhere, and Hilarie just climbed in the car with him and off they went. The week went by way too fast, and soon we were driving back to New Orleans for the flight home.
We eventually bought a house and tried to “put down roots”. During this time, our children grew, we became grandparents, and, like any family, had our share of ups and downs. Dad made trips out every couple of years for visits. Janet always expressed concerns over his driving all the way to Utah alone. After all, he was (depending on which time he came out) in his late 60’s or early 70’s. She needn’t have worried. Dad would sing while driving, and would take necessary rest breaks. He made the trip out and back many times without incident. During one of his visits, he commented to Janet that he was particularly impressed with Hilarie, and how she had turned out. Dad and Hilarie had bonded almost immediately. She loved him like a blood-relative.
As Dad was getting a little older with each visit, I began to realize that there were lots of things we had never talked about. Trivial things, some of them, like “how high had he flown, how fast had he gone, etc.” During one of his last visits, I asked him these and other questions. Since I share his love of flight (I would rather fly than eat, and I love to eat), I asked him how he had felt the first time he soloed in a jet fighter. Expecting to hear that his “heart soared” with elation, I was somewhat surprised when he replied that he had been too busy to really enjoy the moment. “I was slapping the gear up, searching the sky, talking to the tower, checking my gauges, and never had time until later to give it much thought.” But overall, he said, it was an “enjoyable experience”. Dad was getting weaker around this time, and sometimes had trouble with his balance. We saw him “pinball” down the hall on the way to the bathroom more than once.
Our second grandchild was born on November 2, 2001, less than two months after 9/11. While talking on the phone to Dad around this time, he mentioned that he had called the government and volunteered his services. Not as a pilot, but more as an advisor. He certainly had the necessary experience. But they respectfully told him that they had things under control and thanked him. A month later, on Sunday, December 2, Janet and I were sitting on the couch watching television all afternoon. Hilarie had just moved back home after about a year of being on her own. I had moved the last of her stuff back on Friday night. A show about, of all things, embalming and autopsies came on Discovery Channel. A rather dreary topic, but the show was, in a way, fascinating. I remember thinking during the show (more than once) “Why are we watching this, instead of something else?” The program concluded, and Janet mentioned that maybe it was time for Hilarie to get up. We sent Angie down to wake her. Angie came back up and said that Hilarie wouldn't wake up and that she was cold. I started to go down, but remembered that Janet had mentioned that sometimes Hilarie slept "in the raw". Rather than have her wake up and be embarrassed, I told Janet to go down and wake her. I then headed for the back of the house. I heard Janet yell Hilarie’s name, then shriek it followed by my name. I don’t remember taking the stairs, although I know that I must have. I just remember suddenly I was in Hilarie’s room. Hilarie had passed away probably shortly after she had gone to bed a little after midnight. She was four months shy of her 24th birthday. I had little time to even be in shock, before I “felt” my Dad’s voice tell me that “I had work to do” and there would be plenty of time for mourning. Dad was right, again. The following week was a blur. There were funeral arrangements to be made, a burial plot secured, a funeral program to be organized, as well as calling everyone to tell them the bad news. When I called Dad, he said he would be there. He, and my sister Jen’s husband Doug, flew out together. I had never met Doug before, but he pitched right in. Before the week was out, he had helped plan things, run errands, and agreed to be one of Hilarie’s pallbearers. All in addition to keeping an eye on Dad, who was getting kind of frail. In our Church, we believe that all worthy men can hold the priesthood, and one of the priesthood ordinances is the dedication of a grave site. I asked my father to perform that sacred ordinance, not only because he was probably one of the most “priesthood-worthy”men that I knew, but also because of the love and respect that Hilarie and he had for each other. It was only fitting that he dedicate her grave. And, of course, he humbly accepted my invitation. In addition to organizing the funeral, I also got the opportunity/responsibility to deliver her eulogy. Every time I sat down at the computer to write something, my mind would go blank. The day of the funeral arrived, and after some final family “goodbyes”, the casket was closed and the “program” was to start. I got up to speak, and it was easy. I spoke of a young woman that I had loved, and who had loved me. There were humorous anecdotes, and eye-watering memories. At the conclusion of my talk, I was leaving the podium to be with my family, and my father caught my eye. He gave me a quiet, “thumbs up”. That meant a lot to me. It would be two weeks before I could allow myself to “run down” and give in to my grief. I wept, as I know my father probably also did.
One time, one of the other tenants in the building scheduled a barbecue. I planned on bringing something to cook, and wondered if the shy lady upstairs would like to come. I went upstairs, knocked on the door, and when the lady (Janet) opened the door, I said, “Barbecue tonight, be there or be square”, or something to that effect. I finally convinced her that she needed to come. Janet and I became friends, then good friends. We spent a lot of time together. I would get up in the morning, and call her so that she could come down for a cup of coffee. But, I made it “clear” that I wasn’t looking for a “girlfriend”. After two failed marriages, I wasn’t ready to make any commitments. I knew that she cared for me a great deal, and in an effort to “sort things out” in my mind, I moved into Salt Lake City, about 10 miles or so from her. As it turned out, we saw each other more after I moved away. I lived in SLC for almost a year, then decided that I couldn’t outrun fate. I asked her to marry me, and as of this writing, we have been married for sixteen years. Our wedding was just a small one in one of the auxiliary rooms at the church. Her mother and brothers, my ex-mother-in-law, and our 5 children made up the “wedding party”. As we had a relatively short engagement period, a month or less, there really wasn’t time to get anyone from my family out to Utah for the wedding. So Janet had never “met” any of my family. She had talked to all of them on the phone at various times, but had never “been in the same room”. After we had been married for just over a year, my brother got married. We drove to Texas for the wedding. The whole way there, Janet was nervous. Repeated queries of “What if they don’t like me?” and similar questions plagued me the entire trip. I constantly assured her that my family already liked her and accepted her. She mellowed out a little, but was especially scared to meet Dad. She had heard some of the stories from my youth, and figured (mistakenly) that he was a really strict, no-nonsense, military man. She would say, half-jokingly, “Should I hug him or salute him?” We finally arrived at the motel where everyone was staying. As we were opening the door to the lobby, to find out where the family was, my sister Kathy walked around the corner. She led us back to the room where the family was. When we walked into the room, not only was my family there, but my Uncle John and Aunt Jean (Dad’s brother and sister) as well. Somewhat overwhelmed, Janet was introduced to everyone, and when she finally met Dad, all of her concerns and worries evaporated almost immediately. She was accepted, without exception, into the family at once. We met Bryan’s bride, Lesli, who probably had shared some similar concerns prior to meeting the whole family. Our trip back to Utah the next day was different than the trip out. Janet was much more relaxed, and maybe a little sheepish over her previous concerns about meeting the family, and especially Dad.
In the summer of 1995, Dad organized a family reunion in Florida. Our first grandchild was born a week or so before we left for Florida, so Brian, her son, did not go with us. The logistics of getting the other six of us there (Janet and myself, Angie and Hilarie, and my sons Jared and Logan) got worked out in time, and we boarded a plane for New Orleans where we rented a car and drove the rest of the way to the Sunshine State. Dad had rented two houses on the beach for the week-long reunion. Janet and I, with our family, stayed in one house while Bryan’s family and Sandy’s family stayed in the other one. All the “meetings” and communal activities also took place at the other house. The reunion happened to coincide with Dad’s birthday. We all lined up and one by one, gave Dad/Grandpa a birthday hug. As soon as we had done that, we would immediately run to the back of the line and do it again. I think Dad must have gotten well over a hundred hugs from 20-30 people. Looking back, we probably wore him out, but he never complained about it. It was probably during the reunion that Dad and Hilarie got to spend some quality time together. I remember that one time Dad had to go somewhere, and Hilarie just climbed in the car with him and off they went. The week went by way too fast, and soon we were driving back to New Orleans for the flight home.
We eventually bought a house and tried to “put down roots”. During this time, our children grew, we became grandparents, and, like any family, had our share of ups and downs. Dad made trips out every couple of years for visits. Janet always expressed concerns over his driving all the way to Utah alone. After all, he was (depending on which time he came out) in his late 60’s or early 70’s. She needn’t have worried. Dad would sing while driving, and would take necessary rest breaks. He made the trip out and back many times without incident. During one of his visits, he commented to Janet that he was particularly impressed with Hilarie, and how she had turned out. Dad and Hilarie had bonded almost immediately. She loved him like a blood-relative.
As Dad was getting a little older with each visit, I began to realize that there were lots of things we had never talked about. Trivial things, some of them, like “how high had he flown, how fast had he gone, etc.” During one of his last visits, I asked him these and other questions. Since I share his love of flight (I would rather fly than eat, and I love to eat), I asked him how he had felt the first time he soloed in a jet fighter. Expecting to hear that his “heart soared” with elation, I was somewhat surprised when he replied that he had been too busy to really enjoy the moment. “I was slapping the gear up, searching the sky, talking to the tower, checking my gauges, and never had time until later to give it much thought.” But overall, he said, it was an “enjoyable experience”. Dad was getting weaker around this time, and sometimes had trouble with his balance. We saw him “pinball” down the hall on the way to the bathroom more than once.
Our second grandchild was born on November 2, 2001, less than two months after 9/11. While talking on the phone to Dad around this time, he mentioned that he had called the government and volunteered his services. Not as a pilot, but more as an advisor. He certainly had the necessary experience. But they respectfully told him that they had things under control and thanked him. A month later, on Sunday, December 2, Janet and I were sitting on the couch watching television all afternoon. Hilarie had just moved back home after about a year of being on her own. I had moved the last of her stuff back on Friday night. A show about, of all things, embalming and autopsies came on Discovery Channel. A rather dreary topic, but the show was, in a way, fascinating. I remember thinking during the show (more than once) “Why are we watching this, instead of something else?” The program concluded, and Janet mentioned that maybe it was time for Hilarie to get up. We sent Angie down to wake her. Angie came back up and said that Hilarie wouldn't wake up and that she was cold. I started to go down, but remembered that Janet had mentioned that sometimes Hilarie slept "in the raw". Rather than have her wake up and be embarrassed, I told Janet to go down and wake her. I then headed for the back of the house. I heard Janet yell Hilarie’s name, then shriek it followed by my name. I don’t remember taking the stairs, although I know that I must have. I just remember suddenly I was in Hilarie’s room. Hilarie had passed away probably shortly after she had gone to bed a little after midnight. She was four months shy of her 24th birthday. I had little time to even be in shock, before I “felt” my Dad’s voice tell me that “I had work to do” and there would be plenty of time for mourning. Dad was right, again. The following week was a blur. There were funeral arrangements to be made, a burial plot secured, a funeral program to be organized, as well as calling everyone to tell them the bad news. When I called Dad, he said he would be there. He, and my sister Jen’s husband Doug, flew out together. I had never met Doug before, but he pitched right in. Before the week was out, he had helped plan things, run errands, and agreed to be one of Hilarie’s pallbearers. All in addition to keeping an eye on Dad, who was getting kind of frail. In our Church, we believe that all worthy men can hold the priesthood, and one of the priesthood ordinances is the dedication of a grave site. I asked my father to perform that sacred ordinance, not only because he was probably one of the most “priesthood-worthy”men that I knew, but also because of the love and respect that Hilarie and he had for each other. It was only fitting that he dedicate her grave. And, of course, he humbly accepted my invitation. In addition to organizing the funeral, I also got the opportunity/responsibility to deliver her eulogy. Every time I sat down at the computer to write something, my mind would go blank. The day of the funeral arrived, and after some final family “goodbyes”, the casket was closed and the “program” was to start. I got up to speak, and it was easy. I spoke of a young woman that I had loved, and who had loved me. There were humorous anecdotes, and eye-watering memories. At the conclusion of my talk, I was leaving the podium to be with my family, and my father caught my eye. He gave me a quiet, “thumbs up”. That meant a lot to me. It would be two weeks before I could allow myself to “run down” and give in to my grief. I wept, as I know my father probably also did.
In the fall of 2002, I went back to Florida for my 30-year high school class reunion. While there, I managed to get over to Tallahassee to visit Dad. My mother and sister Kathy also went along. When we got to Dad and Judy’s house, I walked in and saw my father in the kitchen, puttering with a sandwich or something. He turned, saw me, and took a step toward me. He thrust out his hand, and introduced himself: “Hi, Sam Fields”. (That was how he had introduced himself as far back as I could remember). Then, recognizing me, he gave me a hug. Dad was suffering from Alzheimer’s and dementia. If I could erase that fleeting look of helplessness on his face right as he recognized me, I would. And, at that moment, I saw and recognized my father’s mortality for the first time. My sister Jen and her husband showed up shortly afterward and we all had a nice visit and took some pictures. As we were leaving, I felt that I might be seeing Dad for the last time.
In February of 2003, I answered the phone one morning. It was Judy, my stepmother. She was crying and told me that my father had died that morning. Again, I felt my father’s voice tell me that I once again had work to do. Realizing that I had just become the Patriarch of the family, I asked, “What do you need me to do?” Judy replied that, if I could contact the rest of the “kids” and let them know, that would be of great help. I contacted my brother and sisters, and a family that my father had known years prior in Ohio or someplace, that now lived in the same town as I did. I set about getting transportation to Florida. My younger son, Logan accompanied me on the plane, and my older son flew to Tallahassee from Boston, where he was attending school. We made it through the funeral week, although the funeral was kind of tough. My brother and two of my sisters were going to sing at the funeral. They asked me if I would sing with them. I refused. Not because of any shame about my voice, but because I didn’t know if I would be able to make it through all the verses of the hymn. “Well, at least practice with us.” They had told me that they would be able to get another bass singer, but he could not be there for a while, or something. Then, as we started to practice, I asked myself whether Dad would shrink from the responsibility. I told my brother and sisters that I would sing with them, and if I broke down, then so be it. Dad would have done it. We sang “Each Life that Touches Ours For Good”. I also had the privilege of delivering my father’s eulogy that day.
Logan and I were to fly back to Utah from Tampa. Judy took us halfway, and a very close friend came and met us and took us the rest of the way. While waiting for my friend, we were sitting in the car and talking. I know that Judy had been through one hell of a week. I know that I certainly had. And I saw her in a different light. Long-forgotten and (I thought) long-resolved guilt nagged at me. I told her that, although Dad was now gone, the bond between us had not died, and I told her that I loved her and still thought of her as Family. How many years had I carried the weight that had now been lifted? Too many, that’s for sure. Dad would have never waited that long.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Memories and other stuff
In the late '50's, we were stationed in Japan. In order to get to Japan, we took a "cruise" on a troop transport ship. I was very young, probably around three years old at the time. I can remember walking around the deck, and looking down through the railing to the deck below. I remember seeing lots of white sailor's hats from up above. I don't really remember seeing the actual sailors that were wearing them, but the white hats stand out in my memory. I remember sitting in the mess hall on the ship and watching my soup rock in the bowl from the wave action. My mother told me that when we first started our "cruise", the mess hall was full of people, but after a day or so, we were frequently almost alone. Most of the people were going to the ship's store and buying a box of crackers to eat in their cabins, because they were seasick. Dad made sure we had regular walks around the deck. To this day, and to the best of my knowledge, I have never been seasick. I believe that it is all in one's mind. I know, there are people who will say, "No, you're wrong. It's all in my gut." I disagree. When we were in Florida in the late 60's and early 70's, Dad bought a boat. An 18 1/2' boat so that we could go skiing and fishing. One time, we were fishing in the Gulf. There were swells of 5 to 8 feet that day. But it wasn't "rough". The swells were smooth and rounded, so the boat just rode up and down. My brother Bryan concentrated maybe a little too hard on the movement of the boat. Soon, he was throwing up over the side. Shortly after he became "sick", a fish took one of the baits we were trolling. At Dad's direction, the rod was removed from the rod holder, the hook "set", and handed to Bryan. Needless to say, he forgot about his seasickness, and fought the 17-lb. mackerel to the side of the boat. To my knowledge, he has never been seasick since.
I recently got a letter from my Mom, who had been reading my "blog". She related to me the story of how, when we were to leave MacDill AFB for Davis-Monthan, she and Dad went to Arizona to find housing. When they got to the housing office (for base housing) they were shown a map of the available houses on base. A woman who happened to be there at the same time, pointed out a particular address and told them,"You don't want to live in this one. The next door neighbors are Negroes." Dad told the housing officer, "We'll take that one." Maybe he saw an opportunity for a "lesson" in the future, but it was a lesson that never had to be taught. Like I wrote in an earlier post, we were never taught prejudice. I remember in Clovis, NM (Dad was stationed at Cannon AFB) in 1959-1960, that my friend and I were walking through the neighborhood (I was probably barely six years old) when a young black man rode by us on a bicycle. My friend pointed at him as he disappeared down the street and asked me, "'You know what that was? That was a nigger." I had never heard that word before in my life, and thought that it was a strange-sounding word. It would be years before I would finally make the connection between that ugly word and skin color. It was certainly a word I had never heard at MY house. In fact, I promptly forgot about the incident, and forgot about the word. My dad never used that word, and he was able to teach me that it, and other derogatory terms, were unacceptable. In fact, if he had used that word, he probably would have clarified his position that it had nothing to do with color. After I got out on my own, I realized that I knew very few black people that might "qualify" for that word, but I knew plenty of "white" people that warranted the label. I find the word distasteful.
Anyway, back to Japan. When we arrived in Japan, we didn't have our base housing yet, so we were billeted in temporary housing called "Wherry Housing". They were probably portable buildings. Anyway, I remember we had a radiant heater/furnace in our "house". Every night after dinner, Dad would walk over and stand in front of the heater, and I would stand next to him. He would reach out his hands and warm them over the heat, then turn his hands over and warm the back of his hands. He would repeat this about three times. I copied every move he made. And I knew, that after the third "hand flip", that it was time for me to go to bed. I know it doesn't seem like much, but I recently had an insight as to how he might have felt: when my youngest grandson, Clayton, and his daddy (my son) came over for my birthday. Clayton is two years old. After he "warmed up" to being at Grandma Janet and Grandpa's house, he followed me around the room and mimicked a lot of my actions. "Imitation" is said to be the sincerest form of flattery. I was awfully flattered that day, and I immediately remembered copying my Dad's actions at the heater so many years ago.
I recently got a letter from my Mom, who had been reading my "blog". She related to me the story of how, when we were to leave MacDill AFB for Davis-Monthan, she and Dad went to Arizona to find housing. When they got to the housing office (for base housing) they were shown a map of the available houses on base. A woman who happened to be there at the same time, pointed out a particular address and told them,"You don't want to live in this one. The next door neighbors are Negroes." Dad told the housing officer, "We'll take that one." Maybe he saw an opportunity for a "lesson" in the future, but it was a lesson that never had to be taught. Like I wrote in an earlier post, we were never taught prejudice. I remember in Clovis, NM (Dad was stationed at Cannon AFB) in 1959-1960, that my friend and I were walking through the neighborhood (I was probably barely six years old) when a young black man rode by us on a bicycle. My friend pointed at him as he disappeared down the street and asked me, "'You know what that was? That was a nigger." I had never heard that word before in my life, and thought that it was a strange-sounding word. It would be years before I would finally make the connection between that ugly word and skin color. It was certainly a word I had never heard at MY house. In fact, I promptly forgot about the incident, and forgot about the word. My dad never used that word, and he was able to teach me that it, and other derogatory terms, were unacceptable. In fact, if he had used that word, he probably would have clarified his position that it had nothing to do with color. After I got out on my own, I realized that I knew very few black people that might "qualify" for that word, but I knew plenty of "white" people that warranted the label. I find the word distasteful.
Anyway, back to Japan. When we arrived in Japan, we didn't have our base housing yet, so we were billeted in temporary housing called "Wherry Housing". They were probably portable buildings. Anyway, I remember we had a radiant heater/furnace in our "house". Every night after dinner, Dad would walk over and stand in front of the heater, and I would stand next to him. He would reach out his hands and warm them over the heat, then turn his hands over and warm the back of his hands. He would repeat this about three times. I copied every move he made. And I knew, that after the third "hand flip", that it was time for me to go to bed. I know it doesn't seem like much, but I recently had an insight as to how he might have felt: when my youngest grandson, Clayton, and his daddy (my son) came over for my birthday. Clayton is two years old. After he "warmed up" to being at Grandma Janet and Grandpa's house, he followed me around the room and mimicked a lot of my actions. "Imitation" is said to be the sincerest form of flattery. I was awfully flattered that day, and I immediately remembered copying my Dad's actions at the heater so many years ago.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
My Other Dad
We left Missouri after Dad's return from Viet Nam, and went to Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. I remember that Mom and Dad had left us in Missouri with our grandparents while they shopped for a house. They found one that was just being finished, and called us to ask what color we wanted our bedrooms to be. I, being barely 14, of course said "black". My brother said "white". Since we had to share a room, we compromised on a shade of grey. After we moved in, and had gotten started in school, I met a kid that lived pretty close to us. He had just moved there, too. And, he had also moved from Missouri. And, there was only eleven days' difference in our ages. And, his dad was a fighter pilot too. Randy Parker and I became lifelong friends. Through thick and thin, you could usually find Randy and me together. We did all the regular stuff: fishing, bike riding, sneaking cigarettes, and in later years we rode motorcycles together, shared a school carpool, and generally got into or avoided trouble together. Randy's dad, (I think he was a Major when we met) flew the F-104 Starfighter, another one of the "Century Fighters". It was commonly referred to as the "missile with a man in it". Again, the Century-series fighters frequently served as test-beds for new aviation technology, and could be dangerous if one didn't have the "touch". Since Dad was gone a lot, and I spent lots of time with Randy, I also spent time around his Dad. In fact, his whole family accepted me into their world. Many was the time that I would be at Randy's house, and we would walk into the kitchen and dinner would be on. And almost without exception, there would be a place set for me. I got to be in on "family" conversations with them, and Randy's dad would be there to give me a little advice, if needed, and sometimes if we (Randy and I) had been up to, let's just say "mischief", I would be chastised (although gently) along with my cohort. At some point in time, our fathers both got to pin on their silver leaves signifying promotion to Lt. Colonel. Col. Parker invited my Dad and me to go fishing in the Gulf with them in their boat. I can't really speak for Randy, but I think he felt the same thing I did: It was just really "cool" to be out with our fathers, and even "cooler" that they had something in common. They were both Fighter Pilots. Neither of them ever really "bragged" about their exploits in the air, but I recall them talking "shop" while we were out in the boat. Col. Parker always had some type of "project" that he was working on. One time it was "nesting" tables for the family room. Another time he was making a fishing rod. I think it must have taken him days to finally get all the guides secured to the rod blank and wound with thread to hold them on. He would get one mounted (he put the rod in an electric drill to rotate the rod while he "fed" the thread onto the rod) and almost get it done, and the thread would break, or overlap. Finally, it was done to his satisfaction. I remember he built a wooden tackle box with drawers for different lures and plugs, etc. It was a work of art, to me.
There were times, while Randy was off at college, that I would just stop by the Parker's house just to chat and visit. I was (and am) that comfortable with them. I didn't always get to see Col. Parker on my visits, but when he was home, I was invited into the family room and we would just talk. About darn near anything. Work. Play. Women. And occasionally even a little politics.
Col. Parker passed away in 1994, a couple of years after I remarried. I was living in Utah, and my mother called and told me. I immediately called the Parker home to express my true sorrow and to offer my condolences. Mrs. Parker is still my "second mom", and Randy and I have been friends for 40 years now.
At Eglin AFB in Ft. Walton, there is an aerospace museum with many aircraft on static display. I am honored to say that the F-104 on display has Col. Parker's name painted on the side. That, to me, says that he too, was an exempliary pilot.
No, Col. Parker wasn't my father, but he was the kind of man Dad was. Honest, Brave, Patriotic, Humble, a Man among Men. A Fighter Pilot.
Dad's Dreams
Lt. Col. Samuel E. Fields
An Officer and a Gentleman
Dad always wanted nothing but the best for his 5 kids. One of his "dreams" was to see all his children go to college. Maybe another one was for his sons to join the military (preferably the Air Force). I know that at times I was a disappointment to him. I had the opportunity to join the Air Force, and "chickened out" at the very last minute. Since my grades in high school had been marginal, I decided that I should probably wait a year before I tried college. So I got a full time job. Then, (we were in Florida at the time) I got hooked on the power of the almighty dollar, and put college off for another year. Then the State of Florida made a big mistake: they dropped the (legal) drinking age to 18. I was already 19 at the time it happened, so I must have felt that I needed to make up that year I had "lost". I moved out on my own with another friend from high school. We shared an apartment that was too expensive for us, and proceeded to party. I was fond of saying that our experience in that apartment was just a "four-month housewarming party". There was always drinking and partying going on. Why just four months? After all, we had signed a six-month lease on the place. My roommate lost his job and we broke the lease. We were later sued for damages to the apartment in addition to the two months' rent we were legally obligated to pay. I paid my portion and got on with my life. By this time, I was a fairly accomplished welder. I was able to pass all the required certifications for working on defense contracts. There seemed to be a prerequisite for being a welder: smoking, drinking, and cussing. Like I said, I was a good welder. Years later, after my second divorce, I lived in my pickup truck through a summer and into the fall. As winter was fast approaching, I knew that I needed to find a roof to put over my head. I started checking the classified for "roommate wanted" ads. I found one and called the person. I set up an appointment for that afternoon. In the meantime, I went to a friend's house to help him re-tar his roof. Up on that roof, next to the tar pot, it was kind of warm, so we had some beer to help keep us "hydrated". Then at the appointed time, I left to meet my prospective roommate. I found the place, a nice double-wide trailer in a trailer park. I knocked on the door and introduced myself. He asked if I would like something to drink. I asked for a beer, but all he had was liquor. So, I asked for a bourbon and water. When I tasted it, it was like rocket fuel. Really strong. Even for me. After probably 30-45 minutes, I noticed a baby grand piano. I don't "play", but I can read music and pick stuff out by ear. The guy asked me to play something. About that time, I felt like I had been hit in the head with a baseball bat. I got really dizzy, and I couldn't hit any of the piano keys I was "aiming" for. He suggested that I sit back down on the couch for a little while, and handed me another drink. That was the last thing I needed right then, but I had a few more sips of rocket fuel while resting. Then, and only then, did he tell me that he had already "filled" the vacancy, but that he had wanted to meet me anyway. I stood up with some difficulty, and prepared to leave. He then made (homosexual) advances. He stuck his hand in my pants. By this time in my life, I had earned a 4th degree black belt in karate, but right then, I couldn't have punched my way out of a wet paper bag. I stumbled out to my truck and remember thinking that I needed to find someplace to pull over and take a nap. As I pulled out onto the main road (a left turn), the centrifugal force laid me down on the seat and I was powerless to stop it. I pulled myself backup where I could see, and crashed into the back of a small car. I remember seeing the hood crumple. I rolled down my window and hollered, "Sorry!" Then, in my stupor, I felt like I should pull off the road. As I turned the truck, I crossed over into the oncoming traffic and hit another vehicle. By the end of it all, I had crossed through a busy intersection, and ended up in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. I don't remember the trip there, though. Total score: Seven vehicles totaling $75000 in property damage, and $8500 damage to my truck. I remember being removed from my truck at gunpoint, (an off-duty policeman was one of the witnesses), and having blood drawn at the scene for blood/alcohol level testing. I ended up in the "drunk tank". I found a place to sleep, and passed out. When I awoke, there were many more people in the holding cell. I had a terrible headache, and a booking slip. The piece of paper said that among other things, I was being charged with two counts of leaving an injury accident. My alcohol level had been .28, which was 3 1/2 times the legal limit. I had no idea whether I had killed someone, or to what extent any injuries were. I had hit rock-bottom. After being bailed out by my boss, who had faith in me, I waited for my court date. I appeared on the specified day, and was told that I needed legal representation. I replied that I couldn't afford one and asked the court to appoint one. The judge knew how much I made, and informed me that I could afford one. So I found a DUI attorney, but he needed a $500 retainer before he would take the case. I didn't have that kind of money, I was paying child support to my first wife, and had been living in my truck because I couldn't afford an apartment and still keep myself supplied with beer. So I called Dad. I explained the entire situation to him. At this point in his life, he had been a devout member of the LDS (Mormon) Church for many years, as had I at one time. I knew how he felt about alcohol use. Nonetheless, he sent me the money to retain legal counsel. I know that at that time, (among others) I was a great disappointment to him. But he displayed Unconditional Love, like he always did. I vowed to make it up to him. I knew I would probably never pay him back the money, and so did he. But I really tried to regain my former level of esteem in his eyes. That was more important to me than anything. Prior to my final court appearance, it was "requested" that I meet with an alcohol abuse counselor. This counselor's recommendations would then be forwarded to the Court. The counselor asked all the standard questions, and then, in an effort to understand why I drank, asked how I felt about my mother and what my relationship was with her. Maybe they thought I hated my mother or something. I answered that I loved my mother and she was a good woman, etc. He then asked the same questions regarding my father. I looked him in the eye, sat up straight, and proudly replied, "My father is an officer and a gentleman." That said it all, as far as I was concerned.
I was sentenced to 180 days, suspended all but 5 days. This was due partly to a dozen or so letters of character reference from associates and friends, and I believe partly because of the counselor's recommendation. I "did my time" and started my climb back to society.
There were other occurances in my life that probably disappointed Dad, but he was always there for me and always had good advice for me. It was left up to me to decide whether to heed it or not.
Flying
(photo used by permission)
Dad was born to fly.When he was growing up, his big brother, John used to make free-flight airplanes and they would take them out to an open place and release them. They would follow them visually, maybe on their bicycles, maybe in a car, and retrieve them at the end of their flight. I guess that when Uncle John built them, he set the flight control surfaces (rudder, ailerons, horizontal stabilizers) so the aircraft would fly in a wide climbing spiral. After the engine or rubber band stopped, the plane would glide in a downward spiral to the ground. Dad would talk about times when the wind might catch the plane, and it might head off for “parts unknown”. I wish I could have seen them. Uncle John grew up to be an airline pilot. . .a darn good one (it ran in the family). He retired as a Senior Pilot for United Air Lines. He had flown 747’s from Los Angeles to Hawaii (and back). The airline called him “back into service” to train new pilots (sound familiar?), and he also flew as a flight engineer at times. Of course, Dad had to fly too. About the time he got into the Air Force, jet fighters were being developed and improved at an astounding pace. Dad flew, in a relatively short span of time, the F-84F, F-84G, and the first of the “century fighters” the F-100. I think he flew the F-100 longer than the other two. The early “century fighters” were fast, dangerous, and sometimes nothing more than a ‘test bed’ for new developments in aircraft technology. The F-100 was the plane the Thunderbirds were flying when I first became “interested” in flying. Although, even as a young (4-5 year old) boy, I could identify an aircraft by the sound it made when it was taking off. Since we lived on base, I grew up hearing jets flying all the time. When the Air Force decided to replace the F-100 as a front-line fighter, they went to the F-4 Phantom II. The Air Force “borrowed” some F-4B’s from the Navy, who was already using them. One of the first operational squadrons in the Air Force to use the F-4 was the 4453rd based at MacDill AFB at Tampa, Florida. This occurred in 1963. I remember Dad telling us about the F-4. It was a huge aircraft. Loud. Smoky. Powerful. Fast. And my Dad got to fly them. I remember that President Kennedy made a visit to Tampa in November of 1963. We drove down to the motorcade route, and got to see the President and First Lady drive right in front of us. It was the 18th of November, 1963. Less than a week later, the first operational mission for the 4453rd CCTS was to participate in a flyover for President Kennedy’s funeral. My brother seems to remember Dad being at home during the funeral, so he may not have participated in the flyover. He is probably right, although even if Dad had flown in the funeral, he probably wouldn’t have talked about it much. He wasn’t much on “bragging” about his exploits. After we left MacDill for Davis-Monthan AFB in Arizona in 1964, Dad found a small airstrip on the outskirts of Tucson where he would occasionally rent a light plane and take (depending on the capacity of the plane) one or more of us flying. I remember he used to rent a plane called a “Citabria”, which was “airbatic” spelled backwards. A lightweight, maneuverable, top-winged tandem aircraft. He would take me up in the Citabria, and tell me how to control the airplane. Since my legs weren’t long enough to reach the rudder pedals, he would coordinate the rudder for me in turns. Then he would take the stick, “rattle” it to let me know he had the aircraft, and he would show me something else to try. I remember one time we were in a steep left banking turn, and I looked out the window and saw a house on top of a mountain. I distinctly remember the brilliant blue-green of the water in the swimming pool in the back yard. By this time, I think he was already an instructor in the F-4. He showed me “what” he taught. He told me to make sure my belt was tight, and then all of a sudden we were upside down and spinning toward the earth. I doubt that he was trying to make me sick or anything, I think he just wanted to see if I had the “right stuff”. Even plummeting toward earth (probably much slower than it appeared to me) I had no fear because I trusted in my Dad’s skills implicitly.
I remember about this time period, Dad had a subscription to “FLYING” magazine. I would read them from cover to cover every month. Sometime during 1965 or 1966, they ran an article about a plane called the “Aircoupe”. It was a very simple airplane to fly, and had no rudder pedals, only a brake pedal on the floor. It could take off at 60 mph, and could literally be flown out of a supermarket parking lot (a big one, admittedly). From that point on, that airplane was the plane of my dreams, and I vowed that someday I would own one, or at least fly one.
Dad rented a Cessna 172 one time and took the whole family up at once. Each of us kids got a chance to “fly” the plane for a little while. I remember feeling kind of smug when, during Bryan’s turn, he gradually lost 300 feet of altitude, while during my chance at the controls I kept my eyes glued to the “artificial horizon”, one of the gauges that indicates whether the aircraft is going up or down I was able to maintain altitude, but realized that flying wasn’t as “laid back” as I had thought. During my turn, I saw little of the scenery, because I was so busy trying to show Dad I could “do it”. Of course, if Dad had engaged the autopilot, we all could have watched the scenery. But I think he wanted us to know that flying can be work. After the divorce, and after Dad had retired from the military, he worked at an aircraft sales company about 30 minutes north of where we kids were living (with Mom). He called one day to ask if we would like to drive up to the airport and help him wash an airplane. After we got that done, he would take all of us kids for a ride. Never one to turn down an opportunity to fly, I jumped on it, and very soon Bryan, Sandy, Kathy, and I were heading for the airport. When we pulled into the GA (general aviation) area of the airport, my eyes took in a glorious sight. Airplanes! Lots of airplanes! And, if you looked real hard, there, on the other side of the runway, was a little red Aircoupe! I hoped that I might get a chance for a closer look at it, maybe while Dad was flying with one of my siblings. We found Dad where he said he would meet us, and exchanged hugs and greetings etc. He then led us over to the plane we were to wash: THE red 1946 Aircoupe. The plane of my dreams, and I was going to get to not only rub my hands all over that thing, but I was going to get to FLY it!! Was it just Chance that the Aircoupe needed washing, or did Dad know of my infatuation with that plane? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I got to fly that plane. As soon as Dad got it off the ground, he told me to take the aircraft. He directed me to climb to a specific altitude, and turn to a certain heading. After probably no more than 10 or 15 glorious minutes of following his instructions, we were once again lined up with the runway for landing. Dad told me to cut the throttle a little, and where I should keep the horizon, but he hadn’t taken the wheel back, and the ground was getting closer by the second. I don’t think I was ever scared, but I was still relieved when (literally) in the last few seconds before touchdown he gently took the wheel and said, “I’ll go ahead and take her in.” We lightly touched down seconds later. People talk now about a “bucket list”, or a list of things they want to do before they die. I had no idea back in fifth or sixth grade what a bucket list was, but flying an Aircoupe was the first thing on mine. I was able to “cross it off” my list that day. Thanks, Dad.
I remember about this time period, Dad had a subscription to “FLYING” magazine. I would read them from cover to cover every month. Sometime during 1965 or 1966, they ran an article about a plane called the “Aircoupe”. It was a very simple airplane to fly, and had no rudder pedals, only a brake pedal on the floor. It could take off at 60 mph, and could literally be flown out of a supermarket parking lot (a big one, admittedly). From that point on, that airplane was the plane of my dreams, and I vowed that someday I would own one, or at least fly one.
Dad rented a Cessna 172 one time and took the whole family up at once. Each of us kids got a chance to “fly” the plane for a little while. I remember feeling kind of smug when, during Bryan’s turn, he gradually lost 300 feet of altitude, while during my chance at the controls I kept my eyes glued to the “artificial horizon”, one of the gauges that indicates whether the aircraft is going up or down I was able to maintain altitude, but realized that flying wasn’t as “laid back” as I had thought. During my turn, I saw little of the scenery, because I was so busy trying to show Dad I could “do it”. Of course, if Dad had engaged the autopilot, we all could have watched the scenery. But I think he wanted us to know that flying can be work. After the divorce, and after Dad had retired from the military, he worked at an aircraft sales company about 30 minutes north of where we kids were living (with Mom). He called one day to ask if we would like to drive up to the airport and help him wash an airplane. After we got that done, he would take all of us kids for a ride. Never one to turn down an opportunity to fly, I jumped on it, and very soon Bryan, Sandy, Kathy, and I were heading for the airport. When we pulled into the GA (general aviation) area of the airport, my eyes took in a glorious sight. Airplanes! Lots of airplanes! And, if you looked real hard, there, on the other side of the runway, was a little red Aircoupe! I hoped that I might get a chance for a closer look at it, maybe while Dad was flying with one of my siblings. We found Dad where he said he would meet us, and exchanged hugs and greetings etc. He then led us over to the plane we were to wash: THE red 1946 Aircoupe. The plane of my dreams, and I was going to get to not only rub my hands all over that thing, but I was going to get to FLY it!! Was it just Chance that the Aircoupe needed washing, or did Dad know of my infatuation with that plane? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I got to fly that plane. As soon as Dad got it off the ground, he told me to take the aircraft. He directed me to climb to a specific altitude, and turn to a certain heading. After probably no more than 10 or 15 glorious minutes of following his instructions, we were once again lined up with the runway for landing. Dad told me to cut the throttle a little, and where I should keep the horizon, but he hadn’t taken the wheel back, and the ground was getting closer by the second. I don’t think I was ever scared, but I was still relieved when (literally) in the last few seconds before touchdown he gently took the wheel and said, “I’ll go ahead and take her in.” We lightly touched down seconds later. People talk now about a “bucket list”, or a list of things they want to do before they die. I had no idea back in fifth or sixth grade what a bucket list was, but flying an Aircoupe was the first thing on mine. I was able to “cross it off” my list that day. Thanks, Dad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
