Awesome

I think every kid goes through it. That point when their daddy becomes awesome in their eyes. Before that time, dads are just there, being taken for granted. Then something happens that amazes, astounds, or otherwise impresses the child. For me, it was when Dad took me fishing for the first time. I was about seven years old at the time. We were living in Colorado, Uncle John lived less than an hour away, and Grandma Fields lived across the fence from us. Dad and Uncle John had planned a fishing outing for our families. We all piled into our respective cars and headed into the mountains. I remember seeing my cousins rigging their lines and heading into the woods in search of the perfect fishing spot. I was kind of jealous, and also impressed. Maybe someday I would be able to have that level of skill and independence. Anyway, Dad and I headed up the stream for a ways, then crossed a very muddy meadow, and came up by a small pond. There were (to me) tall bushes all around the pond, so that my only view of it was through openings in the brush. Dad could see over them. He told me that he could see some fish in the pond. Instructing me to be very quiet, he showed me how to put a worm on a hook. Then he cast it out for me, and handed me the rod. Luckily, it was a fly rod so it was long enough to keep the line out of the bushes. Dad watched as several fish (invisible to me behind the brush) investigated the worm, and gave me play-by-play narration. Then he instructed me to jerk the rod and I was connected to a fish! It probably only took a few seconds for me to reel it in, but it felt like a long time. Soon, a small fish lay at our feet. It couldn't have been much over six inches in length, but it was my first fish. Dad pulled out his sheath knife and showed me how to clean the fish. (The knife was longer than my fish was.) He put the fish into his creel, and we made our way back to join the others. My cousins had caught some fish, too. There were more of them, and they were bigger than mine, but I didn't seem to mind. Daddy had taught me how to fish! I thought he was awesome, because he could tell what the fish were going to do, and how to make them eat my worm. We ate a picnic lunch, and then had to go home. We used to go to my grandmother's cabin for Sunday dinner. It must have been a Sunday when I caught that fish, because I remember that Grandma cooked my fish for me. It didn't take up a lot of room on the plate, I remember. There were, of course, other happenings in my life that reminded me of just how awesome Dad was. Watching him control an airplane when he took me flying, building the famous "box", even driving across the country and finding our destination with no apparent difficulty. All of these (and more) made lasting impressions on me. I think what impressed me most about Dad was that he never "failed". He might have some "bumps in the road occasionally", but he never let them keep him from his objective. He never gave up. And because of that, my Dad was awesome.

Once, Always

"A friend is someone who knows everything about you. . .and still likes you."
Over the years, my father made many friends and acquaintances. Probably more than he knew. His influence touched many lives besides just my own. I have met people all over the country that have crossed paths with my father. Without exception, they have had nothing but praise, respect, and admiration for him. Some knew him from the military. Most of them met him after he got out of the Air Force. Through business dealings and his Church responsibilities, all who met him knew that he was a man of his word.
I can remember in Japan, when I was about 4 years old, that a couple of Dad's friends used to stop by occasionally. One of them was a Lt. Blackwell. I think they used to call him "Blackie". I remember liking it when he would come over. I guess Dad kept in touch with him off and on through the years. He was evidently stationed in Viet Nam at the same time Dad was. What happened to him after that, I don't know. Also, while we were in Japan, the family that lived next to us had a daughter my age. We again ran into them in Florida, in 1969. I briefly tried to "rekindle" the "romance" that their daughter and I had shared when we were 4, but we had changed over the ten years we had been apart. But Dad and Major Bedsworth were still friends. We went water skiing with them, and they taught me to slalom ski. What does this have to do with anything? It has taught me the value of making and keeping friends.
Throughout my life I, too, have met countless people as a result of different jobs, schools, neighborhoods, and locales. Even though they number in (possibly) the thousands, there are comparatively few that I consider to be "true" friends. People that I try to stay in touch with, despite the miles that may separate us. People that share a bond with me. People that are like "family". People that will open their door to me no matter where or when we may chance to encounter one another. I have written about one of these people already, my friend Randy. I have known him for 40 years, and we still manage to communicate with each other at least twice a month through emails or phone calls. He has seen me through some of my greatest triumphs, as well as deepest despair, and remains to this day one of the people that I can call upon if needed.
Another man that I can call upon: my good friend John. We were in the junior-high band together. We were both trumpet players at the time. He was a year behind me in school, and by the time he got to high school, had decided to not be in the band. We saw each other in the halls occasionally, but never really connected until we found out that we were "dating" girls that lived across the street from each other. The four of us would occasionally do things together, but it was when the "girls" (who were best friends) would do things together (they both kept horses at the same stable), that John and I would end up hanging out together. Our friendship grew, and continued to grow after both girls had moved on, and we had chosen different career paths. After I moved into my first "place", John was a frequent visitor and guest. One time, he brought a guy that he worked with to our apartment. His name was Bill, and he was a black belt, among other things. I remember that they were "adding on" to the complex where we were living, and that there were always construction materials in the area. One night, they brought some cinder blocks up to the apartment, and Bill was breaking them with his fist. I was suitably impressed. John "moved" up to Alabama to attend college, but managed to visit pretty regularly. Randy was at college, and Bill and I spent a lot of time hanging out together. Soon, I was learning karate from Bill. He was an excellent teacher, and I was, honestly, a great student. I progressed rapidly, until he and I were teaching a class together, as well as being roommates. When his car burned up on the way to class one day, he was left without transportation and a lot of personal belongings. He enlisted in the Marines shortly thereafter. I tried to stay proficient in the martial arts during his absence. He stopped by when he would have leave, and we would catch up. Many times, John or Randy would be there as well. If you could get any two of us together for a while, there wasn't a beer bottle that was safe. If all four of us happened to be together, it was a party that usually stretched until dawn. My friendships did not end with their marriages, I simply gained another close personal friend. Their wives have all been like sisters, probably even closer. I have loved these men and their wives like family, and they have all returned my love in kind. The "shortest" of these friendships has spanned 35 years. I have met many people since, and few have cemented a bond like these three.
Roughly six years ago, I had the opportunity to speak at church. I happened to be relating a story about my father. After the services a couple came up to me and asked if I was any relation to Sam Fields, from Florida. I replied that yes, he was my father. They had known him in Florida and spoke of their love and admiration for him. My father made lasting friendships with all those that he touched. Well, maybe not "friendships", but certainly a lasting impression. A positive impression.
I am now "middle-aged", and have no idea if any of my father's squadron-mates are still around, but if they are, I know that they remember my father. When I spoke at Dad's funeral, I said something to the effect that he had been "one of the finest men to ever walk the face of the earth". After the service, more than one person came up to me to affirm that statement. Do I have as many friends? I doubt it, but there are at least three people who will remember who I am. True friends.

They Really Do

Do you ever read bumper stickers? Of course you do, everyone does. You can find a bumper sticker about literally every subject, pastime, destination, passion, or occupation imaginable.
Over the years, I have seen thousands of bumper stickers. Dad didn't care for them. He didn't want to "trash up" his car. I remember when I was younger, we went to a "tourist attraction", a cave in Missouri, I believe. As we were standing in line for our tickets, Dad spied a young man heading out into the parking lot with a handful of bumper stickers to put on all the cars. (Can you imagine, a FREE bumper sticker?) Anyway, after we got to the front of the line, Dad specifically requested that NO bumper sticker should be put on the station wagon parked "over there". We toured the cave, and prepared to leave. As we were piling into the car, Dad spotted the bumper sticker. Diving into the glove compartment, he came out with a razor blade scraper, and proceeded to remove the offending decoration right there in the parking lot. It wasn't an "offensive" sticker, there was nothing obscene on it. Not at all like the stickers one sees on the road nowadays. The only bumper sticker that Dad ever allowed on the car was one that read: "Don't Let Them Be Forgotten", and underneath in big letters: "POW-MIA" (Prisoners Of War, Missing In Action). There was a family in our neighborhood in Florida,whose father/husband was Missing In Action. A man who used to live down the street from us in Tucson, turned up Missing In Action in the 60's. He was shot down while on a combat mission. According to his wingman, there were flames coming from the aircraft, and it spun in. No parachutes were spotted. Dad was the wingman. He didn't have to "drill it into our heads", that this (Viet Nam) war was not only important, but dangerous as well. I'm sure that's why we had the POW-MIA bumper sticker on the car.
Like I said, there are bumper stickers for any occasion: "Love a Welder and Watch the Sparks Fly!" "Divers do it Deeper" There are any number of stickers that promote "IT" being performed by any number of trades and occupations. What you interpret "IT" as is limited only by your imagination. Usually, there is an obscene connotation.
I remember the first bumper sticker I heard about that talked about "IT". Dad came home one day and was almost "bubbling" about a sticker he had seen. It said, simply: "FIGHTER PILOTS DO IT BETTER". Nothing obscene or ribald. Pick a task. . .it will be done better by a Fighter Pilot, no matter what IT is. It has been proven to me time after time, by some of the greatest men ever to walk the earth, or fly above it.
I have a cousin who worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. When he was young, his teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. "Doctor, Spaceman, Nurse, Princess, President" were probably some of the answers his classmates gave. When it was his turn, he answered, "I want to be Uncle Sam". I guess his classmates laughed at him. No, he didn't want to have his face on a poster, pointing, and saying I WANT YOU. He wanted to be like my Dad, his uncle, Sam.
Now, I must clarify something. Just because a man (or woman) straps on a jet and heads for the wild blue unknown, that person is not necessarily a Fighter Pilot. Different people have their own "standard" that they judge people by. There are many honorable men out there. There are many patriotic men out there. There are also many brave, faithful, honest and/or reverent men out there. Most men have at least one of these qualities. Some men possess two or more of these traits. The man who lives behind me embodies ALL of these traits, and more. He is a retired plumber. He is a friend to all, is loved and respected by all who know him, and he hasn't flown (to my knowledge) except on an airliner as a passenger. But this great man, to me, is a Fighter Pilot. That is "my standard" that I evaluate people against. There can be no higher praise from me than, "Officer and a Gentleman" or, "Fighter Pilot". Fighter Pilots Do It Better. They really do.

Not All Dreams Come True

"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed and joined the trembling mirth of

sun-split clouds-and done 100 things you have not dreamed of-

wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.

Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept hills with easy grace,

Where never lark, or even eagle flew;

And, while with silent, lifting mind, I trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God!"

-John Gillespie Maggee, age 19

Royal Canadian Air Force

Throughout my entire life, I have always loved flying. In a commercial airliner, a private plane, a hang glider, it didn't matter. As long as there was "air" between me and the ground, I could be happy. Some of my fondest memories are flying with Dad. I used to dream about him being able to take me up in a fighter. Those dreams have continued throughout my life, even after he passed away in early 2003. To be able to "watch him work" would have been great. The closest that I got to that was when he was assigned the task of, well,. . . I'm not sure was he was doing. But it involved taking an Air Force car out and parking between two runways. Dad was able to communicate with the pilots that were taking off or landing. Seeing fighters race by us on either side, hearing that tremendous roar on takeoff, listening to Dad "talk to the planes" was, in a word, "awesome". (And Dad had been worried that I might get bored!) All too soon, it was time to go home.



After Dad retired, he managed to stay in the air. I think he was living in Ohio at the time, but he and Judy and Jenny flew down for a visit. When the time came for them to return home, he offered to make a "detour" and fly me to Mississippi where I was going to visit a friend. That flight was way too short. One hour and forty minutes from Ft. Walton Beach Florida to Hattiesburg Mississippi. It would have taken me most of a day to drive it.



I had wanted to be a fighter pilot when I grew up. My eyesight hampered that dream, although I could have flown transports, or maybe even heavy bombers, with eyeglasses. But, to me, that was more like "driving a bus". I wanted to "drive the sports cars". I have alternately regretted and justified that decision made so many years ago. I could have transitioned into commercial flying after getting out, either with a freight company or an airline. (I'd probably have made more money). And I would have been flying.



When Dad got "his wings clipped", I know that it must have been really hard on him. Having spent a large portion of his life in the air, going high enough to see the curvature of the Earth, going so fast that he could be there and gone before someone even heard him coming, facing Death countless times and coming out on top, "touching the face of God",only to be grounded. It must have been tough. I promised myself that "when I could afford it" I would get my pilot's license and take Dad up and hand off the controls to him. He deserved it. And, I know that I couldn't have given him a "gift" that would have touched him more. Dad, like I have said before, was born to fly.



When Dad passed away, I realized that I would never be able to fulfill my dream of giving him the controls and let him "do his thing" one more time. Nonetheless, I still planned on getting my "ticket" and flying. But there would be no "handing over the reins", now. I would have to be satisfied in the knowledge that Dad would always be my "co-pilot". But, the problem of actually getting my wings still was out of my financial reach. I could have taken out a loan, but by this time my credit was just above lousy, and I couldn't have guaranteed that I would be able to pay it back.



When a company I had been working for had to "close its doors" in late 2004, I searched for a job. . .again. I stumbled across an ad for a draftsman on the internet one night. I had been a welder for most of my life, and had extensive experience in a machine shop, sheet metal shop, and I was able to pursue my "hobby" of drafting and 3d modeling. I had worked as a draftsman before, so I went in to apply. The company happened to build aircraft kits. I asked what drafting program they used to generate their drawings. It happened to be a different program than the one I had used previously. I filled out an application anyway, and left a resume. About a week later, my phone rang. It was the woman from HR. "We really need someone who can 'hit the ground running' with our program", she said. I thought to myself, "what the heck, I tried". "But," she continued, "we do need a full-time welder." That is how I got into the aircraft industry. I had, for many years, been a really good welder. I had enjoyed the opportunities of working with some of the best, and I had learned well. Now was my opportunity to really shine. I received many compliments and accolades for the quality of my work. After all, I was building the landing gear and various other "flight safety" items for their kit plane. I saw my opportunity to again take to the air. All I needed to do was beg a ride in one, and buy a kit to build my own. This was almost a consuming passion. I wanted to fly. And this was my ticket.


I enjoyed working for this company so much that I rarely took a day off. Before I knew it, I had three weeks vacation accrued, which was the maximum one could accumulate. So, I scheduled myself to take a week off. I had been feeling "kinda tired" as of late, and figured that maybe I ought to take it easy for a week, not think about work, just relax. I took my week off, and tried to rest, but no matter how long I "slept in", I just felt drained, and I got winded very easily. The day before I was to return to work, my wife suggested that I should see a doctor to see if anything was wrong. Getting tired for no reason was certainly out of character for me. So, we went to the local "doc-in-a-box" clinic. During my checkup, they found that my blood pressure was 70/40, and my pulse rate was 185 beats per minute. They gave me some pills to take, and told me that I should see a cardiologist before I returned to work.


Early the next morning, I called my supervisor to tell him that I would probably be in around noon, and explained that I had been instructed to see a physician before going back to work. I was hoping for an early appointment, but could not be seen until later that afternoon. So I called my boss back and told him I would probably take the whole day off, and I would see him tomorrow. I went to see the cardiologist later that day. That was the last time I saw "daylight" for quite a while. They called the hospital across the street and reserved a room for me. My BP was still really low, and my pulse fluctated from a "low" of 180 to a peak of 192 beats per minute. I figured I would be there overnight for observation, and then released to go back to work. Ten or so days later, I emerged from the hospital, the proud owner of an ICD (implantible cardiovert defibrillator) and a hospital bill of well over $100,000. Oh yes, and one other thing: I could no longer weld for a living. Since my implant also functions as a pacemaker, the magnetic field produced by welding could alter the regulatory output and make my heart go nuts, or could cause the defibrillator to either "fire" unnecessarily, or suppress the "firing" if it were needed. Luckily, I had enough manufacturing experience, and I had been learning and using the drafting/modeling program they used, so that I was still "valuable" to them. In fact, shortly before I took my (3) weeks' vacation, I had gotten a new title: Manufacturing Technician. The duties were: if it needs to be done, you see it through. Example: take a "napkin sketch", model it on the computer, make drawings/blueprints, make the part, test the part, report results. Only now, I had to get someone else to do the welding for me.


About a week after I returned to work, I finally got the opportunity to fly in one of our aircraft. The company was sponsoring demo rides for the employees. If I had been passionate about flying my own aircraft before, now I was Possessed! I even formulated plans about how to finance the kit, where to build it, even the paint job. I was going to fly!


About six months after my surgery, I found out that I could not get a private pilot's license because of my ICD. People with pacemakers could get waivers from the FAA, but ICD's were still a relatively new development, and the FAA didn't "trust?" them. Like my father before me, my wings were clipped. End of story? Not quite. Although I cannot get a private pilot's license, I may still be able to fly under the ELSA (I believe it means Experimental Light Sport Aircraft) rules. As long as I can pass the medical, take the requisite training, and the gross weight limit is not exceeded, I can fly. At least, that's the theory. There are a few more restrictions to deal with. The main ones right now would be financial, and getting a doctor to sign off on my flying. According to my cardiologist, my heart is almost back to "normal" two years after my surgery. Although the likelihood of having my ICD removed is pretty slim, I continue to hope.

A Man of Many Talents

Like my father, I have held many jobs in my life. The military was Dad's career, and flying was one of his jobs in that career. He was also an administrator, an instructor, a strategist, and a student. I don't think he ever stopped learning. He learned, like a lot of us, from teachers and peers. And, like all of us, he probably learned a lot from mistakes, both his and those of others. I know that he believed in being careful, and in taking care of what was his: his family, his car, the plane he was to fly, his tools, and his boat.



Dad bought two boats that I know of. He bought us a small fishing boat and motor from Sears. It was eight feet long, and four feet wide at the beam, and would hold two thousand pounds. It was made of molded fiberglass or PVC, and was filled with foam. It was impossible to sink. I used to take it out during the summer, and go to visit a friend that lived on the water. We would take the motor off, and moor it out in the cove. Then we would see how many people we could get crammed onto it, just to see if it would go under. Just about the time we would get the gunwales under the surface, someone would fall out, and the boat would pop back to the surface. There were many times that I went fishing in the rain, and would have three or four inches of water in the bottom. I never worried about sinking. I would just head for shore, pull up onto the beach, get out, and dump the water out. Then I would head back out. As a result, the boat was known as "The Cork".



The other boat that he bought was a ski/fishing boat. It was an 18 1/2 foot "Seabreeze" bowrider with a cathedral hull, and a (for the time) big outboard motor. Dad couldn't decide which motor to put on it: a 120 H.P. Chrysler, or the 135 Racing Motor. I wanted the 135 and, of course, we got the 120. I remember our first boating trips around the bayous and bay. Dad was careful to not go faster than "half-throttle" most of the time, with occasional short runs at full throttle. I was really disappointed with our boat. It would hardly get up on a plane. I told myself that maybe six people in the boat was hampering the performance, and that with fewer people it might go a little faster. But, it was a good fishing boat, because with the open bow, everybody could fish. And, it did go (barely) fast enough to ski behind. We noticed that although it didn't go as fast as we thought it should, it had plenty of power. We could pull two skiers at once with no noticable reduction in speed. After the motor had been "broken in", we did a lot of skiing. I remember one day, my sister Kathy and I were to have "our turn" to ski. We both jumped in the water, found our ropes, and hollered "HIT IT!!". To our surprise, we were jerked from the water so fast that she lost her rope. I was already up on my ski, and we hadn't even reached the "bubble trail" from the motor yet. I dropped the rope so that I wouldn't leave Kathy behind. Dad, of course, turned the boat around and pulled up next to us in the water. Bryan or Sandy was already pulling the ropes in. "We'll be right back," Dad said. Then our slug/snail boat screamed away like it was jet-powered. They went about a quarter of a mile, turned around, and came to pick us up. We got in the boat, and Dad took off. This boat was fast. Really fast. Of course, I asked what had happened. Evidently, there was a "stiff" spot in the throttle that offered enough resistance that it felt like a stop. Dad, probably also exasperated by the tortoise-like performance, had slammed the throttle hard when we hollered "HIT IT". He had pushed the throttle past the stiff spot and found that we had been running somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 throttle when we thought we were running at "full". That boat was a lot more fun after that. There were many times that, while skiing with friends, we had eight people in the boat and pulling three slalom skiers and still not running at full throttle. I have always wondered how that boat would have performed with the 135 on it, although it didn't need it. That boat could do an honest 60 mph with three or four people in it. One time, my friend Randy, his girlfriend, another acquaintance, and I found out that Dad had the boat out and decided to see if we could maybe make a ski run or two. We went down to the place that we always went skiing, and found Dad and the boat. After a little pleading, we took off in the boat for a little while so we might do a little skiing. I wanted to ski also, so Randy was driving the boat and I was skiing when we ran down the bayou. Randy turned around at the end of the bayou and opened it up. When we got to the other end, he decided to run down the bayou again and cranked the boat into a hard turn. The water was like glass, and I went to the outside of the turn. I was going so fast that the fin on my ski was vibrating and I could actually hear a high pitched buzzing. I realized that I was going way too fast right about the time I fell. I remember hitting the water three times before I stopped. The people in the boat told me that I did a flip each time I touched the water. When I came back to the surface after my "fall", I noticed that my ski was about 75 feet away. I started swimming toward my ski, and noticed that my toe felt funny. I raised my foot out of the water to investigate, and saw that blood was streaming from my big toe. Somehow, I had split it open. We gathered the ski and me, pulled in the rope, and hightailed it back to where we had parked, and where Dad was. Rather, where Dad was supposed to be. I guess we had been gone so long that he had headed back to the marina or something. We finally got the boat secured, and we piled into the car to go to the emergency room on base. We got there, only to find that they could not stitch me up unless I had a parent/guardian there, since I was still technically a minor. I spent lots of time on the phone trying to get hold of Mom or Dad. Finally, somebody came to the hospital and they put stitches in my toe. Those were the first stitches I had ever gotten. I only wish that they were the only ones that I would get during my life.


If Dad hadn't been so careful while breaking in the boat motor, would it have run as good as it did? Maybe, but probably not for as long. He was pretty good about taking care of his cars, too. I remember being in third grade and asking him what "power steering" did. We happened to have just pulled into our garage at the time. He tried to explain that the power of the engine helped make it easier to steer, but I didn't understand. So, while sitting in the garage with the engine running, he turned the steering wheel with one finger, first one way, then the other. He expressed worry about wearing the tires, but for the sake of my education, he did it anyway. Then he turned the engine off and showed me how difficult it was to turn the steering wheel, even with both hands. That seemed to satisfy me for the time being, but I do remember his concern about the tires.


When he would take me flying, he would stress the importance of a pre-flight inspection of the aircraft. I found it boring and repetitive, but later in my life I saw the importance of it. I was working for a company that built gyroplanes. Actually, we built a kit for other people to build their own aircraft. I wondered about the importance of inspecting the aircraft between flights, especially if it had only been on the ground for a few minutes. One of our aircraft had been out flying in the pattern, giving demo rides to a prospective customer, as well as to some of the employees who had "never been up". After one flight, the pilot made yet another inspection. He found that a support strut for the rotor head was failing. Gyroplanes are one of the safest types of aircraft, but the safety depends upon the rotor head. The entire weight of the aircraft hangs from it. If it fails, or control to it is lost, it can result in an uncontrolled landing (crash). Dad used to tell me that a landing was a "controlled crash", and that a crash was an "uncontrolled landing". There are any number of things that can go wrong (fail) on an aircraft, as well as a car, or even a power tool. Luckily, Dad always knew to take care of, and care about, these things.

Like I said, Dad was a man of many jobs. During his life he was: a truck driver, a fighter pilot and instructor, a "company pilot" flying a salesman around the region, a flying salesman (they got rid of the other guy), a janitorial supplies salesman, a used car salesman, an airplane salesman, a "paperboy", the owner of a paint store, a "soda-jerk", a short-order cook, a grandfather, a GREAT father, and a missionary. Seems like in most of those, he was trying to sell something! At times, he was even trying to "sell" ME! (Let me explain that one.) When I was living in South Florida (West Palm Beach area), Dad, who was living in Logan, Utah at the time, would frequently call me to tell me about all the welding jobs available in Utah. Many of the jobs were in areas that I had little experience in. I would politely listen, and never do anything about it. After many of these calls, I sent him a copy of my resume so that he would know just exactly what my qualifications were, and to "get him off my back", so to speak. Soon, I started getting calls from companies in Utah and Wyoming. Dad had copied my resume and distributed it to any company that had an ad posted. I took down a lot of information from a lot of companies, and told them all that unless they wanted to fly me out for an interview/test and return flight, they would have to wait until I had a bunch of "leads". To my surprise, I actually got enough prospects to warrant a flight to Utah. One interview/test was in Wyoming, so Dad let me borrow a car to drive there. I took the test, but didn't have good feelings about the job. It was out in the middle of nowhere, and I had a wife and soon-to-be-one year old son to think about. Dad offered to chauffeur me down to Salt Lake City and the surrounding area. One company (I remember their phone call: "Yes,. . .I have your resume in my hand and have no idea how I came to have it ") offered to help with relocation expenses if I would hire on with them. Done deal! Now I have been in Utah for 28 years, and I never would have ended up here if my Dad hadn't tried to "sell me". I guess Dad thought (or hoped) that I was like him. . .the best at what I chose to do. . .whatever that might be.

Go West, Young Man. . .Now Go East

By the age of 19, I had probably (by virtue of frequent moves and regular family vacations) already traveled more miles than most “civilians” would in a lifetime. Most of our travels had taken place by automobile, with the exceptions of traveling to Japan by boat, and returning by airplane. I had already criss-crossed the country countless times. So, long drives didn’t bother me, they were just a normal occurrence in my life. Until moving to Florida in late 1968, the longest I had ever lived in one location had been three years. Now, it was time for another trip. Dad had Judy’s Maverick hooked to the station wagon, and I was pulling the motorcycle on a trailer, and we headed west. We drove as a team, Dad leading the way. If he needed to change lanes, I would move over to that lane first, and serve as a “blocker” so that he could safely make the change. I managed to keep them in sight most of the way, although occasionally they might be as far as a mile ahead of me. There aren’t many hills to block the view in that part of the country. While passing through large cities, I tried to stay right on his tail, but I needn’t have worried; we weren’t going to be “changing highways” very much. As long as I could see that I was still on I-10, I knew I was headed the right direction, and I knew that if I got too far behind, Dad would pull over or slow down until he could once again see me “in his six”. While passing through Texas, I happened to notice something a little out of the ordinary in my rear-view mirror. Every now and then, it seemed like the motorcycle was leaning. Soon, it was leaning farther and farther to one side. Noticing that Dad was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me, I flashed my lights once and pulled over, knowing that he would eventually notice that I was not behind him and turn around. Being the observant fighter pilot that he was, he was pulling over even as I came to a stop. He had seen that I was pulling over, and that his bike was leaning. I got out to try and hold the bike up. One of the straps that had been holding the bike up had broken. I looked up the road and Dad was already running back to help me. We got the bike upright and evaluated the damage. The strap that had broken was too short to be of any use. There wasn’t enough to tie together and still be long enough to reach. Not wanting to be stranded, I was thinking of possible solutions. I remembered that I had a vinyl-covered cable with loops at each end. Leaving Dad to hold the bike up, I opened the trunk and hoped it would be easy to find. Luckily, it was near the “front” of the pile. Then, I hoped that it wouldn’t be too long. If it had been too short, we could have still used the broken straps to fill in the shortage, but being too long wouldn’t help us at all. It was a ¼” braided stainless steel cable inside a vinyl sheath. Cutting it was out of the question. As it turned out, the cable was EXACTLY the right length, and with a couple of padlocks we secured the ends to the trailer and motorcycle. Dad was impressed. The cable held, and we made the rest of the trip without incident.
Whenever we had traveled, Dad had planned our routes to include “potty” breaks, food stops, and lodging stops. “We’ll be stopping in Jackson for lunch”, he might say. And sure enough, we would arrive in Jackson right at lunchtime. Maybe the years of flight plans and briefings gave him the “to the minute” accuracy. My Aunt Jean once remarked, “If Sam tells you he will be there at 4:30 and he get to town at 4:00, I think he must sit at the outskirts for half an hour, so that he pulls in the driveway right at 4:30”. He was that good. (And, no, we never sat at the outskirts of town to kill time.)
Before we left Virginia, Dad had (of course) arranged for a job and a place to live. He was going to sell janitorial supplies. Not just brooms and mops, but floor treatments, waxes, and cleaning solutions. One of the “target customers” was schools, where high traffic could result in high wear, particularly in halls and (especially) gymnasiums. So, when we pulled up in front of the house we were to live in (we had, of course, driven straight to it) we couldn’t set up “housekeeping” until Dad had first applied a few of these floor treatments to the floors. He wanted to be able to tell the customers, from his own experience, how the products performed and whether they were easy or tricky to apply. After a few days, we were able to “move in”. One of the questions that Judy had asked was about the weather in Phoenix (we were actually in Glendale). Dad had told her that it was mostly dry, and that it “only rained a couple of times a year”. So, that first month gave us six rainstorms. (Judy chided Dad about it, saying that we had now gotten “three years of rain” and she hoped we wouldn’t die of thirst NEXT year.)
I filled my gas tank when we got settled, and tried to figure out where I could get a job. Welding jobs were either scarce, or required a higher level of skill (certifications) than I had at the time. I checked with some bicycle shops in the area, because I had been assembling bikes at the toy store and was pretty good at it and had my own tools. But, I just couldn’t seem to find a job. In retrospect, I don’t know that I looked that hard. I made that first tank of gas last for an entire month. I rode the motorcycle a lot while out “looking for employment”.
Much of my time was taken up with my baby sister Jenny. We had a back yard where I spent lots of time pulling her around in a cardboard box, or “throwing” her up in the air and catching her. Judy would frequently be in the kitchen and watch us through the window. Once, I threw Jenny high in the air, and tripped over my pant leg (I was wearing bell-bottoms) while she was “airborne”. It is said that “thought” processes happen at light-speed. This must be true, because I remember the following thoughts going through my head while Jenny was still in the air: “Oh GREAT! I’m falling down. Jenny is counting on me to catch her when she comes down. I won’t be there to catch her. Don’t panic! Oh, crap! Is she going to cry? Will she be hurt? Can I roll under her so she lands on me instead of the ground? This may hurt. That’s okay, better me than Jenny. Is Judy watching? Is she going to witness the “crash”? Is she going to be mad? Furious? Boy, this really sucks. Just when we were starting to get along. Where’s Jenny? I can do this. Come on, Roger, you’re fast. There she is, she’s coming down. Does she have those hard little shoes on? You’re gonna rip your pants. Is Judy watching? C’mon, arms out. Gotcha!” I had always been able to move fast, I had usually been the “last one standing” when we had played Dodgeball during school. How I did it, I don’t know, but I caught Jenny just like I always did. A quick look at the window showed Judy just like she always looked. I decided that maybe it was time for a little break, and collapsed on the grass. After my heart returned to normal beating, we played some more with the cardboard box. It was safer. Years later, I asked Judy if she remembered seeing my “ballet” in the yard that day. Neither she or Jenny ever knew how close it had been. I guess I inherited Dad’s quick reflexes.
Sometime, during his youth, Dad had injured his shoulder joint. For some reason, his being thrown from a horse and hitting a fence comes to mind. But that could be wrong. Anyway, his shoulder would come out of the socket. Usually at a bad time (is there ever a good time?). Once, it happened while we were on vacation. We were camping, and had gone down to the lake to swim. We had all worked our way out into the water, and Dad decided that he would dive over into the water. He arched over and disappeared. When he broke the surface seconds later, he was holding his arm over his head. Evidently, he had gotten his arm in just the “right” position, and his shoulder joint separated. This was the first time I had seen it happen, and I was scared. There happened to be a large man out swimming, and he came to assist. They got his shoulder back in after a little “wrestling”. Another time, Dad was water skiing and fell. When he realized that his shoulder was out again, he was so angry that he started thrashing around and was able to slip it back in while still in the water. I asked him if being pulled around on skis by his arms was a good idea. He replied that, as long as he didn’t fall, the “tension” on his shoulder held it in. I don’t know how many times he threw his shoulder out, over the years, but he said that every time it happened, his shoulder got “weaker” and easier to pop out. And if he could get it “back in” quickly, the damage was minimal. However, if it took a long time, the muscles would start to swell, and make it harder to work it back in.
Dad’s shoulder went out shortly after moving to Arizona. I tried, and Judy tried, to help him get it back in. But, out of nervousness, fear, and inexperience, I was unable to help him guide it back in place. By this time, his shoulder muscles were swelling, and it was time to go to the doctor. We got Dad to the station wagon and Judy drove us to the hospital at Luke AFB. They gave Dad a muscle relaxer pill to swallow, and we waited. They gave him another pill, and we waited some more. They finally gave him an injection and we waited a little bit more. Both of the pills and the shot seemed to hit all at once. The doctor was able to easily slip the joint back in. Dad, however, felt none of it. He was off in “La La Land”. After bandaging and slinging his arm, they sent us home. Dad sang the whole way home. I guess it was singing, anyway. He was rather unintelligible. We got home and put him to bed where he slept through the night, and probably part of the next morning.
During this time, and the final couple of months in Virginia, the girl who had “dumped” me had started to miss me. I had been corresponding with her on a regular basis. I had stopped in to see her while in Florida for the holidays, and our “relationship” had warmed up a little. So, that may have been a factor in my half-hearted attempts to find a job. Around the end of that January, I received a phone call. It was from my former employer in Florida. “Come on home, we need you”.
I gathered my belongings and stuffed them into my car. I had “rescued” a couple of miniature billiard tables from the trash while working at the toy store in Virginia. I tried desperately to fit one or both of them into my car, but my trunk “opening” was just one inch too small to fit even the smaller one in. I pulled out the passenger seat and folded it up in the back seat in an effort to make it fit, but to no avail. Sadly, I was to leave my pool tables behind. Dad handed me a gas credit card, and enough money to eat and sleep on, and just a little extra. We shook hands, hugged, and I was on my way. There were good things and bad things about the trips between Florida and Arizona. The good part was that I didn’t have to do much navigating. I just got on the interstate and headed (depending on which state I was headed for) east or west until I got there. The bad part was that I was always heading east or west. Which put the sun in my eyes for half a day, every day. On the trip out to Arizona, I solved this dilemma by wearing my cutting goggles while driving into the sun. They were basically really dark sunglass lenses. They cut the glare quite well. They had worked fine on the way out, and I again put them on when the sun got into the windshield, which was the first half of the day. I would take them off after the sun got “over the roof”, and maybe put them on as the sun filled my rearview mirror. It was kind of lonely out on the road, and I had gone through all of my 8-track tapes at least twice by the time I got into Texas. I filled my time by trying to analyze occupations of people that either passed me, or that I passed. I remember one car distinctly: a Cadillac with three “carousels” of sunglasses in the back seat. I remember it because I saw it more than once. It passed me, and I noticed the sunglasses. Then I passed it while it was pulled over on the side of the road to pick up a hitch-hiker, then it passed me again a few miles on down the road. Close to the next large town, I saw a man standing on the side of the road. He had a duffle bag, some new sunglasses, and some crutches. I pulled over, and offered him a ride. I apologized for the missing passenger seat (it was still folded up in the back seat), but told him he was welcome to “stretch out on the floor” if he wanted to. He tossed his duffle in and climbed in after it. He was able to use his duffle as a backrest, and stretch his legs out. He later told me that it was the most comfortable ride that he had gotten. His name was Chip and he was headed for Houston, and would appreciate riding any miles I was willing to drive in that direction. He had a bad leg, I don’t remember exactly what the problem was, though. Enjoying his company, I detoured off my planned route and drove him to Houston, where we finally found the trailer park that his sister lived in. I planned to drop him off, and go find a motel. They (his family and in-laws) would not hear of it. They fed me, and put me up for the night on their couch. I awoke early the next morning, had breakfast with them, and headed for the gas station next to the trailer park. This was in early 1974, which was a time of rationing and limits at many gas stations. I pulled up to the pump, and a man I had met the night before (a relative of the hitch-hiker) came out to pump my gas. I noticed a sign that said “$2.00 limit” on the pump. Figuring that I would try to “fill up” after I got out of Houston, I told him to give me what he could. I watched the meter on the gas pump hit $1.00, then approach $2.00. Then it went to $3.00 and beyond. The guy filled my tank completely! Worried that I might not have that much cash, I waited for him to come to my window. “That’ll be $2.00, please”. I tried to point out that I owed him much more than that, and he looked me in the eye and said, ”I can’t sell more than two dollars to anybody. Thanks for bringing Chip home.” He winked at me, shook my hand, took my two dollars, and I was on my way.
I marveled at my good fortune as I drove. Not for getting eight or nine dollars worth of gas for only TWO dollars, but that there were still people like that in the world. People not afraid to ask for, or to give help. They felt lucky because their brother had been returned to them safely. I felt lucky just to have met them. My streak of “luck” didn’t end there. Later in the day, I passed through a very small town and decided to find a gas station. I pulled in, and noticed that the pumps listed the price of gas as $.329 a gallon. This was when gas was selling for $.65 to $.75, or higher. I filled my tank and went in to pay for my gas. I commented to the woman at the register that I thought her pumps must be wrong, and was prepared to pay the “real” price. “Well, they’ve never come out to change my pumps, and I can’t sell it all,” she said. “In fact, they’re going to cut my allotment because I can’t sell all that I have been getting”. Right then, I wished that I had a 50-gallon drum in the trunk. Later that day, a station wagon passed me. There was a little kid in the back and he was staring and pointing at me. Soon, another kid joined in. Worried that I might be getting a flat or something, I prepared to pull over. I glanced up at my mirror to see if anyone was behind me, and started laughing. I had forgotten to take my cutting goggles off after the sun got high enough! I must have looked like a mad scientist or something. I drove the rest of the way to Florida that day. I drove alongside the beach, and rolled down my windows and inhaled deeply. I was almost home. I drove through town, pulled into a driveway, and got out of my car. I stretched, then walked into the only house in town where I didn’t have to knock on the door.