When we were in Tucson, stationed at Davis-Monthan AFB: August ‘64 -August ‘67
We had a ‘64 Chrysler Newport 9-passenger station wagon, and Dad was preparing for a family vacation/camping trip to Yellowstone. Well, not just to Yellowstone, but a “visiting” vacation. We stopped to see Uncle John and Grandma in Colorado, and Aunt Jean in Albuquerque. We had gone to Sears and bought all kinds of camping equipment: air mattresses, sleeping bags, a camp table, six folding camp stools, a camp stove, camping cookware, two single-mantle lanterns and fuel, an 11’ x 11’ x 9’ canvas umbrella tent with aluminum poles and frame, and don’t forget the fishing tackle. As the time grew nearer for our departure, I think I wondered ,“how are we going to fit all this stuff AND the family of 6, PLUS clothes, coolers, snacks and Herbie, the Basset Hound into this car?” Well, Dad must have thought about that as well, because he came home one Saturday with a bunch of plywood and stuff. He drew some lines, got out his trusty hand saw, and got to work. Soon, a large flat wooden box began to take shape. At the time, I didn’t quite make the connection. That is, until I had to help him put this box on top of the car. It was a masterpiece of planning and engineering. The roof of the station wagon had a slight “crown” to it, as well as longitudinal stiffeners. Dad had shaped the side-to-side bottom stiffeners on the box (there were probably 4 or 5 of them) so that they not only were notched to fit over the stringers on the roof, but the notches were also different depths to match the crown of the roof. And, it fit like a glove THE FIRST TIME we put it on the car. It had eye bolts to tie it to the luggage rack, latches to hold the lid on, weatherstripping to keep the contents dry (which came in REAL handy on the trip), and it held EVERYTHING we needed for our camping trip. I was in awe of my father. I had never seen him do a lot of projects; yes, he had a small toolbox and an electric drill and a hand saw, but aside from hanging a picture now and then, or helping my Cub Scout brother build Pinewood Derby cars, I didn’t really notice him doing many crafts. Having been in manufacturing for more than thirty years with experience ranging from shop helper to supervisor to designer/drafter, I [now] know what went into building that box. Dad had to analyze the volume of everything that was to go into the as-yet unbuilt box, design a box that encompassed that volume with a specific “footprint”, build the box, fit the box to the top of the car without actually putting it on the car, and make sure it had structural integrity (the speed limit was still 70 mph back then). That’s a lot of wind trying to work its way into every seam for hours on end. That box was quality. There was no “rattle” room in that box when it was finally loaded for the trip. Everything fit perfectly. Just like it was supposed to. Oh yes, one other thing. He built a dog bed to fit over the transmission hump between the front and middle seats. It spanned the width of the car, had risers to make sure it was level, and two pads to “hug” the hump. Another engineering marvel.
In 1965, I was in fifth grade. Midway through the school year, we started studying about Southeast Asia. We learned the names of the countries, and got to color maps and stuff. About the same time, Dad came home one night and said that he had to be gone for a while. When we pressed him for details, he said he was going to “Southeast Asia”. I ran to my room and got the map that I had colored at school. He looked at it, smiled, and said, “I’ll be somewhere on that map”. Satisfied with the answer, I went on about my normal life. Somehow, without going into detail, Dad had conveyed the message that WHERE he was going was not as important as WHAT he would be doing when he got there. I had always known that my Dad’s job was “special”. I remember clearly being four years old and telling people that my daddy worked at the Air Force Base. Of course, for most of my early years, we lived on base, and all my neighbors “worked at the Air Force Base” too. Even then, I knew that Daddy’s job was important. I knew that if something bad (I didn’t know exactly what) happened, that my Daddy would get in his plane and go fix it. Mama would stay home with me, my brother, and my sister, and he would come home after he fixed it. I think it was instilled in me even then,that: My Daddy loved me and the rest of my family, but someone had to do what he did, and that our Country took precedence over everything else. In later years, Dad expressed regrets for “not being there” during a lot of my growing up. I told him that I fully understood why he did what he had to do, and that I, and many others, respected him for his commitment to America. I think they call it Patriotism. But, back to Southeast Asia. While serving his tour somewhere in Southeast Asia, he wrote quite a bit and sent many large boxes. They contained bronzewear eating utensils. Well, they were gorgeous, with their polished bronze knives, forks, and spoons with teak handles. There was one large set for our family, and I think a few smaller sets for relatives. Of course, we hardly ever used them, maybe once or twice at Thanksgiving or something. And he sent us kids some presents too. I don’t remember what he sent me now, but I remember that it was unique. . .something you just couldn’t find any old place. Dad returned safely and later on, we were told that he had been in Thailand. Yep, it was on my map. During his entire absence, I never once wondered where he was in Southeast Asia. I just knew that he was doing his job, and that was good enough for me. Did miss him when he was gone? You have no idea how I much missed him, but there was a sense of Pride knowing that he was good at his job, and he was doing it for his Country.
I remember one night in Tucson, we went to see a movie in town. As an extra added bonus (to me) we took the girl that lived up.the street from us. She happened to be my “girlfriend” at the time. We played all kinds of games, we shared her binocular microscope, we rode bikes together, I think we had a “club”, but we were the only members. We were involved in every way, except romantically, looking back. Anyway, we had never kissed, and we worked out a plan so that I could get dropped off at her door and the family would drive, about three more houses down, to our house. While we were alone, we were going to have that kiss. Well, I broached the “walk her to her door” idea, and I think Dad thought it might be a gentlemanly thing to do. Only problem was, they were planning to wait right there until I returned to the car! Well, a guy can’t get any privacy with his whole family watching. I kept telling him that I had promised her that I would walk her to the door and say goodnight. I guess I finally convinced him that I could be dropped off and that I would be right home. We got dropped off, and set about preparing for “the kiss”. Unfortunately, nobody had let HER family in on the plan, because the porch light came on immediately, and the front door opened to let her in. Our best-laid plan had gone awry. With an unspoken promise of “next time” in our eyes, we said goodnight and I walked the short distance to our house. Our empty house. Looking back, I think Dad was teaching me something. While my failed romantic interlude was taking place, or not taking place, the family went for ice cream. I missed out all the way around. Life is tough when you are in sixth grade. The lesson? Always keep your word no matter what the consequences may be, so make sure you see the bigger picture before committing yourself. If I had just kept quiet, she might have been able to go with us for ice cream. And then there might have been a better chance after the ice cream. Or did the plan for ice cream happen after I was dropped off, to teach me the lesson? I will never know.
In 1965 or so, I was finally old enough to join the Boy Scouts. Dad had been a Boy Scout. I was excited to follow in his footsteps toward manhood. The base had a troop, so I didn’t have to be trucked off-base to go to Scouts. And, after a few times of being taken, dropped off, and picked up, I figured I knew the way to the Scout Hut, and besides, a bunch of the guys in my class rode their bikes to and from Scouts. So I started riding my bicycle. Sometimes, depending upon the time of year, there was still plenty of light left in the day to see well enough to ride home after Scouts. Other times of the year, it was almost dark before I even left for Scouts. On one of those evenings, I had my Scout flashlight with me. It had a ring that folded out from the end that I guess you could hang it by in your tent or something. Well, riding a bike with one hand and holding a flashlight with the other was kind of difficult, so I slipped the ring over my handlebars. That the light was pointing straight down didn’t seem to matter at the time. Although, it did seem to matter to the Air Police that “pulled us over”. Specific details are hazy, but our bikes ended up in the back of the A.P. pickup truck, and we were each driven to our respective homes, where the officers spoke to our parents and left it in their hands. At my house, Dad wasn’t home at the time so they talked to Mom. She expressed concern over my riding my bike at night as it was, because it might not be “safe” for me. She worried that someone might try to “hurt” me. I responded that she didn’t need to worry, because I was on base, right? I will never forget the look on her face. Nothing dramatic, just a combination of immediate understanding, and sadness that she had to shatter an illusion. All my life, I had lived under the impression that if you were in the Air Force, no matter what your rank, you were the same kind of man that my Dad was. All of my Dad’s friends, all of my friends’ parents (officer or NCO, it didn’t matter) were cut from the same cloth. They were honorable, good people. Yes, some of them cussed occasionally, but never around the children. I only know that some of them swore because I happened to overhear them in another room, or across a fence. But that didn’t make them “bad”, because if they were bad, they wouldn’t be allowed to be in the Air Force. When Mom told me that yes, sometimes bad people were in the Service, it set me back a little. For me, it was a real eye-opener. Did it change my opinion of the Air Force personnel that I came in contact with? NO. Mom and Dad just hadn’t exposed us to any “bad” people. In later years, I met all types of people that were in the military. I respected them all for their service, but some of them, I wouldn’t want my kids to be raised around them. And it still bugs me to hear news reports about the arrest of a serviceman from the local base. I always think back to that night in Arizona when I realized that America was indeed the land of opportunity, and that all types of people were entitled to the opportunities afforded by the Military. Why can’t they all be like Dad? People I knew, or knew their kids. People like Claude (Spud) James. His dad was Colonel Daniel (Chappie) James. His dad went on to become a 4-star general in the Air Force. And, his dad was able to get me an autographed photo of the Thunderbirds demonstration team. It was a picture of them flying in formation while streaming smoke. Each pilot had signed his own smoke stream. And speaking of the Thunderbirds, I was “sweet” on a girl that lived up the street from us. Actually, I knew her brother first, then I met her at school. Their dad was Major Tom Swalm. Their dad later became the flight leader for the Thunderbirds. Great pilots, and great, honorable men. Just like my Dad.
When we first moved to D.M., we were running around the still-empty house and yard when we noticed the kids next door. The first thing I noticed was that there were two little girls about my sisters’ ages, and a boy about my brother’s age. That made me older. The second thing that I noticed was that they were Negroes. Race had never been an issue in my family. And besides, if their Daddy was in the Air Force as a pilot, he was a good man. The Taylors were really nice people. And we kids spent lots of time playing with their kids. Another family moved in across the street from us. The Funderburg family. They had a boy my age, Chuck. We immediately became best buddies. They and the Taylors were good friends and socialized together occasionally. I remember asking Chuck one day why his hair was so curly. He said that was just how it was. And that was good enough for me. I asked him why he didn’t hang around with this one particular girl who was a friend of my current “flame”, then we could all hang out together. After a year or so, Chuck’s family moved off-base and I didn’t see him very often at all after that. One day, I was talking to David Taylor, the neighbor kid and he said, “You know, Chuck is like me”. I, being somewhat naive, didn’t quite understand. Until he added, “You know, a Negro”. Gee, I never made the connection. The Taylors were very dark, almost black, and the Funderburgs were very light-skinned. So I responded, “Oh”. Like,” is that all? Big deal.” It made no difference to me then, and it makes no difference to me now. These kids’ dads were Fighter Pilots in the Air Force. That was the only qualification, if any were needed at all, that I even thought about. I would love to get in touch with David Taylor and Chuck Funderburg sometime. They were my friends. Neither of them, I would wager, thought it made a difference back then, and probably still feel the same way now. There were other families “of color”, of course. Their kids were in my classes at school. I played with them at recess, and danced with them at the Youth Center dances on Friday nights. Color was never an issue, and nobody (not even the adult chaperones at the dances) ever said a word about interracial dancing or anything else. I was never told NOT to associate with anyone because of color or creed or religion. I liked a girl who was Jewish by faith, even had dinner at their house. Yes, their beliefs were and are different than mine, but so what? It would have gone against my Dad’s teachings to have discriminated against anyone. I am thankful to have not been taught prejudice.
I remember sitting around the dinner table one evening. I must have been in sixth grade. Mom was talking to Dad and whatever topic it was, Mom was relating how she had dealt with a situation of some sort. Something about telling someone one thing, but not everything. Not really a lie, just not all the facts. To me, it sounded like she had lied. I started chanting, “Mommy is a liar, Mommy is a liar”. I got through about two repetitions when I caught my father’s stare. The chanting ceased immediately. Dad didn’t have to raise his voice. He quietly told me to never speak about my mother in that way again. I never did. Because, as soon as I caught his look, I knew I had messed up, and had jumped to conclusions. As it turned out, my mother had been making the best of an awkward situation and was tactfully, but honestly, dealing with an obnoxious person. Lesson learned? I can’t really attribute this one to Dad, I mean, he didn’t come up with the idea. “Honor thy father and thy mother all the days of thy life.” Have you ever noticed, in that commandment, that the honoring doesn’t stop when they die? It will only stop (not really) when YOU die. But, since grandparents are somebody’s parents, then my children should honor the memory of my parents, and so on: ad infinitum.