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.
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