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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

First Phantoms at MacDill. I think Dad could be in there somewhere among the flight crews.

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.

Herbie

When I was in third grade, Dad took the family for a drive. We ended up at a kennel. I remember a large yard with dogs running all around. There was this one puppy, a young Basset Hound (about six months old), that ran in front of us. As it passed in front of us, its front legs seemed to buckle. Unfortunately, his back legs hadn't gotten the message that he had "tripped" so they continued to run. This caused the puppy to slide along on his chest for a few feet. That was our first encounter with Herbie. He came home with us that very day. Officially, on the Pedigree, his name was "Fields Colonel Herbert", but we never addressed him by his rank. He was just "Herbie". As we had no fenced-in yard, he would run freely around the neighborhood. We didn't worry about him, he stayed pretty close to our house when he was out. He would be in and out all day, and would sleep indoors at night. He was one of those dogs that was born with patience. He had to have patience, with four kids to play with. We lived in Largo, Florida at the time. That area of Florida was terrible for dogs. He would come home infested with ticks. At first, we didn't realize he might be infested, until one of us kids would find a tick on ourselves. That dog would sit patiently while Mom would get tweezers and pull ticks off of him. He didn't yelp, or try to run away, even when we pulled them out of his ears or from between his toes. I think he knew that we were not hurting him intentionally; rather, for his own good.

He went out one night like he always did. While watching television, we heard skidding tires and yelping. He had been walking across the road, and a car came up the street. He didn't get out of the way quite fast enough. Of course, we all ended up outside. The car had run over, or at least "pinched" one of his hind feet. The driver had stopped, and had carried him up to our house. (Are there still people like that nowadays?) Herbie was limping around while my parents were talking to the apologetic driver. I guess some of the neighbors had heard the tires and yelping, because soon there were lots of people out in our front yard. I remember the boy next door must have been in the bath when it happened, because he was standing out in the yard with everyone else, wearing only a bath towel wrapped around his waist. We then noticed something: the larger the "audience" was, the more severe Herbie's limp became. What a ham! He was practically back to "normal" the next day.

After we left Florida, we went to Tucson. We had a small back yard that was "fenced" by a cinder block wall. That was where Herbie spent most of his "outdoor" time. I say 'most' because I think he missed big yards and/or no fences. So, when given the opportunity to escape through a door left open too long or too wide, he boogied. Cries of "Herbie's out!" would ring out from kids all along the street. Those that weren't afraid of him would assist in catching him and returning him to the house. Mom would put an old bedspread on the couch at night, and he would sleep there. During the day, the spread would be folded and put on the floor in the entryway, and he would take his naps on it. We used to say, "time to make Herbie's bed" before we would go to bed every night.

A few times during his life, he would contract "mange" or something similar. He would get big red "raw" patches on his body. It always looked like he had a bad case of "road rash", and it must have hurt a lot. Mom would take him to the vet, and he would prescribe a medicine that came in an aerosol can. We were to spray the raw patches with it, and the stuff was supposed to go away. We could tell after the initial application that it must have stung like crazy. You could almost "see" him grit his teeth when it was time for his treatment. He would sit there, and maybe flinch a little when the spray hit the wounds, like maybe there was a lot of alcohol in it. But he would not try to get away, or snap at us. After his treatment, he knew to go to the back door. He would be let out and then he would go nuts! He would run all over the yard and raise a ruckus, like his tail was on fire. After a few minutes, the stinging would stop, and he would settle down and come back in and everything was fine until it was time for another "treatment". Then the whole scenario would repeat.

I don't know how or why Dad picked Herbie for us. There were certainly younger, more "puppyish" dogs to choose from. I had "made friends" with a couple of daschunds at the kennel while were looking around, but Dad wanted a bigger dog. He made the right choice. Herbie lived a long life (more than ten years) and never changed. Never got grumpy, just older and grayer. The last month or so of his life was tough for him, and all of us. I remember that late fall/early winter day that Mom took him to the vet. He had gotten weak, and moved a lot slower. That doesn't mean HE slowed down, he still attempted to welcome you home and still thought of himself as our watchdog, but even his tail-wagging was slower and more feeble. Anyway, Mom had taken him to the vet, and I had gotten in my car to go somewhere and passed her on her way back from the veterinarian's office. I figured she was coming home "alone", but when I got home, Herbie was still with us. He lived another month, and passed away early Christmas Morning. Mom woke me while it was still dark, and told me he had just died. She had sat up with him all night trying to keep him comfortable. Wanting to get him out of sight before the other kids got up, I told Mom to get me a couple of garbage bags. One went over the front, and the other went on from the rear. I then put him in a box and put his body out in the garage. I woke my brother Bryan and told him what had happened, and together we cleaned up the kitchen floor. Everything was cleaned up before my sisters got up. Our family had a Christmas tradition. Anything "from Santa" could be opened, played with, etc. immediately. However, before we could open presents under the tree, we had to have breakfast. We usually had a coffee cake that Mom would make. (Do you know how LONG it takes for a coffee cake to bake when there are presents waiting to be opened?) We were sitting at the table eating breakfast, when my sister Sandy looked around and asked, "Where's Herbie?" We informed her and the others that he had died. My brother and sisters started crying. Sandy was hysterical, and cried the longest and loudest. Finally, everyone settled down, and we went to the living room to open presents. Since Mom and Dad were divorced by this time, Dad wasn't there, but he was going to come by and open presents with us. When he got there, I was worried that he might say something "wrong" (inquire as to where Herbie was, or how he was doing) and get Sandy started up again. So I tried to catch his eye soon after he got there, but I couldn't quite get his attention. The longer he was there, the more tense Mom and I got. Finally, I asked him if he would like a cup of coffee. He replied, "Sure, thanks". I said, "Good, you can come fix it". He laughed, rolled his eyes, and followed me into the kitchen, where I quietly informed him of Herbie's passing. He thanked me for telling him, and for telling him in the manner that I did. He treated me as a man, an equal, that day. I had always wondered at what point in his life a boy became a man. Not physically, but emotionally. When could a boy call himself a man? I now know that on that Christmas morning, I became a Man. My mother told me pretty much the same thing a day or two later. What made me a man? Being able to "take charge" in a bad situation? "Knowing" how to break the bad news? Buying a car? Having a job? My parents were different now: they were fellow adults and they treated me as one from that day on.

I later learned from my mother that my father wept that day. Not only for Herbie, but for all of us. Herbie had been around for most of our (the kids) lives. Dad knew the pain we were feeling, and knew that there was really nothing that he could do to ease our pain.

Tough Times- 1969-1973

Dad returned from Viet Nam safely in the fall of 1968. We were next assigned to Eglin AFB in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. And, since school had already been in session for two or three months, I was again the new kid. But, remembering the “success” I had being a smart-aleck, I figured that it might work in school there. What a let-down! After about two weeks, a girl leaned over in class and asked me, “Where was it that you came from?” I answered that I had moved from Missouri. Without missing a beat, she said, “Why don’t you just go back?” I was crushed. New lessons learned: Nobody likes a smart-ass, and, Dad was right: just be yourself. If people only like the person you are trying to be, then how long can you BE that person? Just be yourself, and those that like you will always like you. Actually, it made things a lot easier. I didn’t have to have two “sets” of behavioral rules. I didn’t have to turn off the disrespectful clown act and turn on the good son act any more. Not that I was perfect. Remember how I said that I had gotten lazy at school? The studying (or non-studying) habits that I had developed during my 8th grade year and the first part of my 9th grade year had carried over. It was really hard to buckle down and DO my school work again. As a result, my grades plummeted. Our grade cards were given to us by each teacher for that particular course. I had a whole stack of BAD grades, and was scared to show them to my parents. Mom kept asking me when did report cards come out? All of a sudden, the NEXT report cards were coming out. I had sat on my grade cards for over a month! So, one afternoon, I slipped my (old) report cards onto Dad’s desk. He was at work, and I got out of the house ASAP to postpone the inevitable. Finally, I could stay out no longer. . .I had to go home. When I got home, I noticed Dad’s car was there. I walked in and tried to get to my room. Dad saw me, and called to me. About the time I got to the door of his study, the pounding in my ears was overridden by the sound of my mother crying hysterically in her bedroom. Dad looked at me, held up the report cards, and said very quietly and sternly, “Don’t you EVER do this to your mother again.” That was all he said, but it spoke volumes. I had to go to summer school to pass Algebra 1 so that I could get on to high school. Then, I was a sophomore. I had the same problem buckling down and doing the work. I went to summer school to get driver’s education out of the way, so I could try to get my required courses taken. In the meantime, Dad got sent to Korea. My grades continued to suffer and I think I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was worried about my Dad. I tried applying myself and doing the work, with limited success. Dad developed a heart problem and was taken off flying status, and sent home from Korea. I figured that maybe after all of his service years, he might not have to go away any more. I was wrong.
I remember one Sunday morning during my junior year in high school. I had begged off from going to church that morning, and Dad had worked the night before, so he didn’t go. We were sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee or something, when he started to talk. He and Mom were having some problems. I know now that he was broaching the concept to me gradually, but at the time, it was devastating to me. There existed the (remote) possibility that he might go away. Again. Only this time, it was for keeps. After what seemed to me and my siblings as an eternity filled with anxiety and pain, (and most assuredly Mom and Dad as well), they were divorced in the summer of 1971. It was only somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 —8 months, but it seemed a heck of a lot longer. During this period, Dad set out to buy Mom a car. I got to accompany him on some of his “window shopping” trips to the car dealerships. I got to sit in a Lotus on one trip. We ended up at the local Chevy dealer and I saw a 1971 Malibu 350. It was red, and had a 4-speed. Oh, how I tried to convince him that Mom NEEDED that car. He countered with the comment that it was going to be Mom’s car, and she didn’t need to be shifting gears all the time. I knew he was right, just the same. . . She ended up getting a Sunflower Yellow Malibu 350 with a white vinyl top and (sigh) an automatic transmission. It was a nice car, and I got to drive it occasionally. But, that left the ‘64 wagon for me to drive. Dad’s car-buying days weren’t done, though. He was also looking for a new car for himself. He had it narrowed down to a Datsun 240-Z or a Volvo 1800E. I secretly hoped for the Z-car, but he opted for the Volvo. One of the most beautiful cars ever made, and at the same time, one of the ugliest cars ever made. Until you slid into the leather seats and turned on the Blaupunkt FM radio and cranked the air conditioner to full blast. Add to that a 4-speed, fuel injection, and electric overdrive and you had quite a machine. Dad stopped in for a visit one day shortly after the divorce, and I was looking at the car. I noticed cat hair all over the back seat of the car. I commented on it, as I had thought that he wasn’t crazy about cats. “Well, my wife has two cats”. Bomb number one. I asked, “Anyone I know?”, knowing full well that I probably didn’t know her. As it turned out, it WAS some one that I had met before. She and her husband had come to our house to teach Mom and Dad to play pinochle. I remember the day clearly, because I found the game to be boring, and my brother and I went out to play one-on-one football in the yard. During the game, he was carrying the ball and I lunged at him and tried to trip him. I ended up stepping (hard) on his ankle. Games over. The football game ended because my brother was screaming in pain. The card game ended because someone had to take my brother to the hospital. I had broken a little tiny bone in his ankle. But, because just about every leg movement one can make affects the ankle, he was put in a hip cast. So I remembered the woman. “And, around the middle of next summer, you are going to have a little brother or sister.” Bomb number two. But, I accepted both facts with the proper amount of apathy. Of course, as the time grew nearer for the baby to be born, I mellowed just a little. It wasn’t going to do anyone any good to hold a grudge against a baby. (I must add that I got over my grudge with my stepmother. It took a while, but I did it. I realized that my father had picked her, and that she made him happy. I had no right to try to stifle that. And, she is actually a wonderful woman. She is not my mom, but still a wonderful woman. I regret having wasted the years that I did, not knowing her like I do now.) The summer after I (finally) graduated, I got a baby sister. My brother and I drove up to Montgomery, Alabama where Dad was attending the Air War College to see the baby. I hadn’t seen my stepmother since the pinochle/football games. The baby was beautiful, as all babies are. Dad took us to a movie while we were there. “What’s Up, Doc” was the movie we saw. Dad laughed through the whole movie. It was good to hear him laugh. The next day, we drove back to Florida.
I got a job as a busboy at the local Sheraton, and started thinking about a car. All I had was a motorcycle, and despite being in a “tropical” state, winters are cold. Especially on a motorcycle. Dad went with me to look for cars. We found a really nice light brown ‘69 Mustang with a 3-speed/6-cylinder engine. We both drove it and decided that I was a good car. The next day, I rode the motorcycle to the used car lot to put some money down on it. Well, it was gone. Somebody else had bought it. I remember that it had rained that day, a good Florida rain. So, the streets were still damp, and there were lots of puddles. I ended up at another dealership to see what they had. I found a ‘69 Dodge Dart about the same shade of brown as the Mustang was. I looked it over, there was some slight body damage, but the price was about what I figured I could afford. I asked to test drive it, and they let me. I was still 17 years old! I drove it carefully through some neighborhoods and on a couple of “main roads”. (Remember, the roads were still wet.) So I was being real careful. The car drove nicely, and the AM radio and air conditioner worked. I put $25 down on the car that very day, and went on my way to get hold of Dad to tell him about it, so he could arrange financing on it. He would take out the loan, and I would make the payments. The next day, of course, I went back by the dealership to look at “my” car. I opened the hood and looked at the engine. (I didn’t really have any idea what I would be looking for, but that’s what you are supposed to do, right?) As I closed the hood, I noticed some “decorations” on it. The decorations said “340 Four Barrel”. Yep, you guessed it. I asked if I could drive it again. The salesman said, “Sure, after all, it’s your car”. I might add that the weather was gorgeous that day. I idled out of the dealership lot and got on a side road and stomped my foot down. Holy Crap! That car just flat got up and MOVED!! I just grinned all the way back to the car lot. Financing went through a day or two later, and that car and I started wearing out (rear)tires. Of course, when Dad was riding in it, I “behaved”. He thought I had made a good choice, and inferred that I needed to make sure the money was there for the payment each month. It felt good knowing that my Dad approved of my choice, and that he was willing to put his credit reputation on the line for me. I made every single payment, sometimes in cash and change on the due date, sometimes early enough to mail it in. But I paid for it. Every darn cent.

Right after I got The Car, I also got a new job that paid a little more, and had potential for a career. I got a job as a machine shop helper at a local defense contractor. I worked in the machine shop as a “grunt”, then was sent to the welding shop to be a grunt there. I would test things we built for leaks, and if there were any leaks, I was to get a welder to come over and fix it for me. The guys in the shop got tired of having to fix holes, so the foreman taught me how to weld enough to melt the metal and let the hole seal up. Additional lessons followed, and I became proficient enough to not have to ask for help much at all. During this time, I decided to enlist in the Air Force. I needed eyeglasses so I figured that flying fighters was probably out of the question. But, I figured that maybe I could use not only the great benefits, but get some schooling as well. Maybe pick up a little more discipline at the same time. I spent a lot of time at the recruiting office. I asked the magic question: “What kind of job could I get in the Air Force?” Sgt. Mashburn told me that they didn’t know yet, but there was a battery of tests that I would take, then, based upon my scores, they could give me a list of all the jobs I qualified for. So, on a Saturday afternoon, four other young men and I took the tests. We were told that the results would be back the following Tuesday. So, that next Tuesday, I stopped by the Recruiting office. I asked Sgt. Mashburn what jobs I qualified for. He picked up a really thick binder and tossed it at me. “Pick one”, he said. “You qualify for every position in the book.” He elaborated, “You had a 95 in Electronics, a 95 in Math, a 90 in Mechanical and an 85 in Clerical. All those jobs have a listing as to what your minimum scores need to be to qualify for them.” So, instead of browsing through the book, I asked him what the Top Electronics job was. He recommended “Precision Measuring Equipment Specialist.’ So that is what I picked. Evidently, major corporations wrote to the Air Force every year asking what PME’s were getting out that year. Then they walked right into $25,000 (or more) a year jobs right out of the Service. Now, I know that 25K isn’t really a lot of money now, but in 1973 it was a LOT of money, especially for a starting wage. So, I was on my way. I took the bus up to Montgomery to take my military physical, and took another series of tests. I had done everything except “raise my hand” to take the oath. I kind of held off going in for a little while, and had to wait for the proper time to join up so that my Tech School (at Lowry AFB at Denver, my grandmother Fields lived right across the fence) would be starting right after basic training. I had also entertained the notion of going to college if I didn’t go in the service. Finally, the day arrived for me to get on the bus and head off to Basic Training. I was supposed to be on the bus at 4:30 that afternoon. At 2:00 that afternoon, I was at the recruiting office telling Sgt. Mashburn ,“I don’t think I want to go.” I told him that I was learning to weld, and that I had a girlfriend that really wanted me to stay. He tried to talk me into it, but admitted that it was, indeed, my decision whether I went in or not. I left the office, still a civilian. I continued to learn to weld, and was making pretty good progress. Then, disaster struck. I got laid off. There might have been some warning, but I did not see the signs. We were almost at the end of a contract, and needed to downsize until work picked up again. Not only did I lose my job, my girlfriend dumped me, and it was right after the registration deadline for the local junior college. I got a job in a small steel shop for about a month or so. That ended after I showed another guy who came looking for a job how to gas-weld some steel. Well, he showed the boss the pieces that I had welded, not the ones that he had tried to weld. So, they let me go, and he got hired because of my skill. Fed up with Florida and the crummy job market at the time, I called Dad. By this time he was stationed at the Pentagon, and lived in Virginia. I asked if I might come for a visit/move up there. He said yes, and since I didn’t have any money, either he or Mom bought me a plane ticket to Washington D.C. By this time, my baby sister was about 18 months old. She attached herself to me almost immediately. Since she couldn’t say “Roger” yet, it came out “Bobbee”. When she would wake up, she would start calling “BOBbee, bobBEE.” I decided to try to find a job there. Dad took me over to the Toys ‘R’ Us store in Fairfax, Virginia where I asked if they were hiring. The manager came over with some papers and handed me some, and handed the rest to a girl who also was applying for a job. One paper was an application, another paper was a test. Math problems, logical thinking, attitude and aptitude. The last piece of paper was blank. He explained that it was “scratch paper” for the test. So, the girl and I started our paperwork. I was just about 2/3 of the way through a nasty case of sinusitis at the time, and felt like crap. But, with Dad waiting, I needed to get the test done. I told myself that I would not use the scratch paper. So I didn’t. I did all of the math in my head. At the conclusion of the test, the manager came over and collected our papers. He picked up my application, glanced at it for a moment, picked up my test, checked the answers, and glanced at my scratch paper. He picked it up, looked at it and turned it over. One side was as blank as the other. He looked at me with amazement, said that nobody ever did that, and asked me when I could start, all in pretty much the same breath. I arranged for a start date, and Dad drove me back home. On the way, he was just about bubbling with pride and enthusiasm about my “amazing” feat. It felt good to make him feel good. There is nothing like a shower of Father’s Pride to bolster your attitude.