So now I'm a Mountain Man?

Alas, I have been sorely remiss in my attention to the blog. Frankly, I had a long dry spell. I would think of things at work, and space them by the time I got home. . . Home. . . We have a new "home". We had grown tired of the apartment complex we were living in, and Janet got on the internet to "find us a new place to live". I wasn't totally against it, I just hated the physical processes involved in moving from one place to another. Maybe (although I have moved myself many, many times) it's because when I was growing up, the "moving men" came and packed us and moved us. All we had to do was stand there and watch, make sure that whatever we planned on taking with us in the car didn't get packed, and stay out of their way. Then we would hop in the car with our games and toys and snacks and drive to our new house. Simple. That's not the way it works when you don't have the cash for a moving company. More on that later.

Anyway, Janet kept finding "places for us to live" and she and Angie would maybe drive by and look at them. If they were a "possible", they would drag me to go look at it. Most were close to where we were, so a move would be a lot of short trips, or fewer if we could borrow/rent a truck or trailer. But, I didn't feel that it would be worth the effort involved just to move two miles away, I guess. So, she started looking for places in Salt Lake County, which would be closer to my work, but less desirable as a place to live. Then, she found a house for rent in an area that we had always (not so) secretly wanted to live. It was close to our favorite fishing lake, and in a small, mountain town. We drove out to look at it on a Saturday (we kinda wanted to get out for a drive anyway) and found it to be a "definite possible". As we were driving back into the Salt Lake Valley from the mountains, we could see a thick layer of "sludge" resting on the city. Right then, I decided that I had had enough of city living. We drove back out the next day, and looked at it again. Granted, it would mean almost an hour of commute time (one way), but the air was clean, there was a mountain for the back yard, and the population density dropped from 3300 people per square mile down to 40 people per square mile. There would actually be BREATHING room! We talked with the landlord, and he said that we were the only people that came back for a second look. I told him that I would get back to him within two days, and we headed back down the mountain to the smog and noise. But only temporarily. I borrowed some money against my 401k, and paid the first, last, and deposit, and we started moving. It took us a week and a half to get all our stuff moved, because I couldn't afford to rent a large truck. Although, we probably spent more than that would have cost just putting gas in the cars to make a couple of trips a day. I was able to scrape enough money together to rent a small truck to haul the large stuff that wouldn't fit in the cars (couch, washer and dryer, beds, etc.) But being able to "stretch out the spending" over two pay periods worked well. I would get off work, run to the apartment and load up the car, head up the mountain, unload, and some days make another trip before falling into bed exhausted, only to repeat it again the next day. Some people might consider us to be crazy, moving from the city (with a 20-minute commute) to a "summer home community" (with a 50-minute commute). I think we would have been crazy not to have made the move. The stress levels are much lower, the air is unbelievably clean, the skies are full of more stars than I ever remembered seeing before, there are deer, elk, moose, raccoons, skunks, foxes and probably more types of wildlife as well, and most importantly, it feels like HOME. It has been many years since I was somewhere that I felt totally at home. When I was growing up, we lived in a small town in Colorado. When Dad got transferred, he and Mom kept a bank account in Colorado, because, for a time, that was where they planned on ending up after Dad retired. Colorado was "home" for Dad. I now understand a little more. I don't know that we will stay in this rental house for a long time. But, I hope to be able to stay in this quiet, peaceful, beautiful area from now on. Of course, I do get some good-natured teasing from some of my co-workers about becoming a "mountain man". Growing my beard back for the winter has only added fuel to it. But that's okay. I'm home.

Small World

(I know, it's a "repeat" picture, but stick around anyway).

I was searching the "Web" last week for additional pictures of "Dad's" plane, when I stumbled across some pictures of assorted Phantoms. Particularly, "Air National Guard" Phantoms. I found a picture of a Phantom that was flown by Daniel (Chappie) James, now on display at Tuskegee University in Alabama. (This is another man that I have tremendous respect for). I happened to notice the tail number and thought it looked familiar. The number was 64-0851. If you look at the picture of the two Phantoms next to the "tanker" in Hawaii, you will notice that the plane closest to the tanker is Dad's plane, 64-0806, and the other plane is Chappie James' plane, 64-0851. These planes flew together in Viet Nam, both were used to shoot down MIGs, and they flew together at their last (active) duty station, the Hawaii Air National Guard. Small world.

What Goes Around, Comes Around

We recently got rid of one of our vehicles. The engine stopped while I was driving home. We got it towed to a tire store and swapped the tires on it with our other vehicle. Then it went to the junkyard. The other car seemed to "like" the better tires, but as a whole, we were never really happy with it. We bought it out of necessity, and it was all that I really qualified for at the time (my credit had some bad scars on it) that we felt like we wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in. It was a "newer" car (2007) but we think it had been in an accident sometime before we got it. It never felt right, or "safe". So, last week, we bit the bullet and got a new 2009 car, and a used 2007 SUV. (The SUV is "mine".) We have enjoyed both of them so far, and we not only feel safe in them, but aren't ashamed to be seen driving them, either. Now comes the tough part. Our 23 year- old daughter asks to borrow a car to drive to the store. We made sure that she was comfortable driving the car, and that she knew where all the switches and buttons were. But, then she wanted to drive "Dad's" car. Being really protective of both my daughter AND my car, I made sure she did okay driving it as well.
Tonight, she asked if she could go to a friend's house. By herself. In my car. All manner of "what-if's" went through my mind, as well as a multitude of excuses/reasons why I shouldn't let her. Then I admitted to myself that not only is she a good driver, she's a good kid, (and she knows that if she goes joyriding tonight, she won't get the car again for a long time), and I also remembered a similar time in my youth involving Dad's car: Dad had bought a brand new Volvo 1800E. This car was, as Dad put it, "a sports car driver's 'sports car'". It was, to many, well. . .ugly. But in a beautiful way. Leather seats, Blaupunkt FM stereo radio, air conditioning, four-speed, fuel injected engine, and plenty of exhilaration for the lucky driver. Dad was visiting for an hour or so, and my friend Randy was over at our house. I asked Dad if I could take Randy home in his car. To my surprise and delight, he consented. We took off in the car and I returned about 20 minutes later (actually, it was more like 45 minutes). Not too much of a problem, except for the fact that Randy only lived a half-block or so away. I could walk to his house in under three minutes. Dad was, understandably, a little perturbed with me upon my return. "I thought you were going to take Randy home and be right back", he said. I apologized, and offered the reasoning, "if you had the rare opportunity to drive a car like that under the same circumstances, you might have done the same thing." Maybe he reflected back upon HIS youth, but he mellowed out a little. It probably wouldn't have been quite as big of a deal, except for the fact he had needed to get on the road to be somewhere soon.
All of this went through my mind this evening when Angie asked to use my car. Maybe that's why I let her.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today, July 11th, would have been Dad's 80th birthday. We didn't do much in the way of commemorating, except for tentatively plan a weekend trip to Las Vegas (Nellis AFB). We plan to see some sights, lights, and the vehicle for Dad's flights. Yep, I want to go see"Dad's" plane. (Stay tuned for pictures.) 'Don't know exactly when, but probably this summer, sometime. I am, of course, excited about seeing the plane up close.

Jen, my youngest sister, emailed some pictures of Dad when he was much younger. They, or at least some of them, will probably make their way onto the pages of this blog.

Dad was always pretty quiet, and I'm not really sure how he felt about birthdays. I don't remember a lot of celebration when I was a kid, but I know we got him presents and a cake. Of course, he was also gone a lot during those years, and may not have been "home" for his birthday. But, he is "home" now, so "Happy Birthday, Dad!! We love you and miss you!"

"Dads' Day"

Last weekend was Father's Day. My older son called to tell me Happy Father's Day, and I returned the wishes to him, as he is also a Father. My family and I went for a drive to celebrate the "holiday". We decided to get out of town and see the scenery. We ended up at our favorite fishing lake. Too bad we didn't have any fishing gear with us. The lake was beautiful. I couldn't help but think about Dad while we were out. I remember that during one of his visits many years ago, we went for a drive much like the one we took last weekend. We looked at the scenery, and let Dad reminisce about past trips and drives we had taken. It was really enjoyable for all of us. We had a camera with us, and took some good pictures. A few come to mind as extra special: Dad was standing out near a stand of trees and burst into song. Janet caught him with his arms outstretched and his mouth smiling in song. Another one was of Hilarie and him and the rest of the family. The love and admiration they had for each other was almost "visible" and tangible. We miss them both, but they are probably hanging out together and having fun. . .and they both probably had a laugh at our expense last weekend when I had to change a tire on the car while we were heading home from the lake. We hit a "hidden" pothole in the road that was deep enough to actually bend the rim on the front wheel. The tire was still holding air, but I didn't trust it. As I was putting the damaged wheel in the trunk, I saw that the inside of the wheel was also bent. I later found that we had also bent (to a lesser degree) the rear wheel, but it was repairable. I remember a trip we took when I was a boy. Somehow we got a flat tire on the station wagon. . .in a torrential downpour. . .out in the middle of nowhere. Dad dutifully got out and started changing the tire. I felt bad that he was out there in the rain, and I felt impressed that I should try to help him. Out into the rain I went, but I was of no help, actually. But, just getting out there in the rain with him made me feel closer to him, and I wanted him to know that I would help him if he needed me to. He told me to get back in the car, out of the rain. A State Trooper pulled up behind us about that time, and he put his lights on to alert oncoming drivers. The station wagon was a '64, and it did not have emergency flashers. Dad got the tire changed, and we proceeded on. Dad was soaked to the skin, and I was pretty wet too, from my thirty seconds or so in the rain with him. I think we must have stopped somewhere down the road so Dad could put on some dry clothes.

I also found some more pictures of "the plane" that show that it really did fly. They are shots from its last duty station, the Hawaii ANG (Air National Guard).

Jawbreakers and Hailstones

Memory is a strange, inconsistent gift. Have you ever wondered why people can remember things that occurred years prior, but can’t tell you what they had for dinner last night? There are probably “documented” theories as to the reasons why, but I have my own theory, and it is probably as “correct” as the others. I will just call it the “jawbreaker” or “hailstone” theory. Both start out as a small particle or piece, and grow as additional layers are added. If a crack develops occasionally, the addition of a “layer” may fill the void and, in the process, “overlap” or intersect earlier layers. So it is with our memory. Our earliest memories are at the center of the “jawbreaker”, and subsequent memories are added as layers. Some memories, through the “filling of cracks” may go deeper toward the core. And, like the hailstone melting or the jawbreaker dissolving, our memories deteriorate from the outside. Generally, the last layer “applied” is the first to dissolve, with the exception of the “fissures”, or cracks, which capture part of that layer in a deeper area.
I can remember the names of some of my parents’ friends from the late 1950’s, but can’t tell you my next-door neighbors’ last name.
My earliest recollection is that of my grandfather building me a sandbox, and him pouring the sand into the box around me. I remember sitting in the wooden enclosure, and seeing a truck or station wagon backing up to the sandbox. I remember seeing the bags of sand unloaded and being dumped into the box. I was eighteen months old.
When Mom, Kathy, and I went to Tallahassee to see Dad in 2002, he didn’t recognize me at first. Then, he was able to hit a deeper “layer” and make the connection. He and Mom sat at the table and talked. Mostly about the past, people that they had known, etc. because that’s where his strongest memories were.
I had a great-granduncle that lived 106 years. He was born in 1874 and died in 1980. He was a remarkable, ordinary man. He lived by himself and mowed his yard and the ones of his neighbors. He let his driver's license lapse because he must have thought that he wouldn't live long enough to use it. I think he was in his 90's then. He finally checked himself into a "nursing" home, because there probably weren't too many people his age that weren't in care facilities. He would occasionally check himself out and fly to California to visit his daughter, and then return to his care center. My sister Sandy visited him with my grandmother shortly before he passed away. He apparently wasn't real attentive at the time. As they were leaving, my grandmother reassured her that he would be thinking about the visit, and would "put the pieces in order". On her subsequent visit, he had remembered whose daughter she was, and how she fit into his life. He had dug through the layers on the jawbreaker until he found what he was trying to remember. So memories aren't necessarily lost, just buried. However, if we continue to "access" these memories, they will stay near the surface. How can we do this? By talking, "blogging", documenting for posterity. At my "young" age of 54, I am amazed at what I remember, and also frustrated by what I can't. That's why I sometimes go for a month or more between "postings". I have to dig through the layers until a memory surfaces. A lot of times there are "fissures" that connect to additional ones as well. But, stay tuned and be patient. . .there are a lot more still buried in there.

Whatever Happened to Swing the Statue?

We moved into an apartment complex a few months ago, and as a result, there are children of all ages and ethnicity everywhere. And, like we did when we were kids, they play all sorts of games. We played Freeze-tag, Swing the Statue, war, hide-and-seek, cowboys-and indians, secret agent, and matchbox cars. We played with wooden gliders, and built models of cars and planes and Rat-Fink. We played Batman, Green Hornet (we all wanted to be Kato), and Wild Wild West. We played Red Rover, Duck-Duck-Goose, Dodgeball, baseball and occasionally football, if we could get enough guys together. Yes, we even occasionally played "house" with the girls, but we were usually secret agents as well. You could buy toy guns that really shot plastic bullets. My crowning achievement was that one Christmas I (and some of the other boys) got a Johnny Seven O.M.A (One Man Army). It was a monstrous plastic "gun" that had no less than seven different weapons in it. We had some hellatious games of "war" that year. I wish I still had it, it would be worth some money nowadays. My brother got a G.I.Joe one year. I think Dad was a little perturbed that he and I might be playing with "dolls", although he was a valuable resource for information about the various accessories: guns, jeeps, uniforms, etc. Anyway, enough about that.
I took our dogs out to "potty" the other day, and saw some kids playing nearby. They had a blanket-tent/fort set up, and I figured they were playing house or something. I saw a boy walk up to the tent and expected something to the effect of "Hi honey, I'm home". Imagine my surprise when they started talking: "Okay, you can be the landlord, and we are gonna hide so you can't throw us out." WHAT!!!? What the hell kind of surroundings are these kids growing up in? Maybe it's just me, but I think that any kid under the age of ten shouldn't even KNOW about "evil landlords" and "eviction". Even if there is a situation like that in their home, the kids don't need to know all the particulars. All they need to know is that they may be moving soon. It's not their fault, and they shouldn't have to share that burden. Let them stay young and innocent just a little longer. Let them PLAY. My granddaughter is seven, and her favorite game is "waitress". She can spend hours (literally) taking our orders for lunch, dinner, breakfast. She walks up with a small pad of paper and tells us what the specials are, and writes down what we "order". And, yes, it can get "old", but I figure that (1) she is having fun, and (2) she is actually practicing her reading and writing skills without realizing it. Let them PLAY.

Pinewood Derby

As an industrial designer and blueprint checker, part of my duties include knowing and calculating sectional densities of the materials used in fabrication i.e: weights of structural members (angle, channel, "I"-beam etc.) based upon their type (steel, stainless steel, aluminum), as well as checking lengths and sizes to insure that the assemblies will be strong enough for the tasks performed. There are programs that will calculate the stress and load, and my employer uses some good ones. One thing that is important is to make sure that we don't try to put "ten pounds of crap into a five-pound bag". In other words, if one part won't fit into another, it ain't gonna work. While at work recently, I was reflecting on how, again, Dad amazed me when I was young.
Bryan, my younger brother, was in Cub Scouts, and the famous "Pinewood Derby" was at hand: a father-son project aimed at bringing fathers and sons together to accomplish a goal. The project kit (available through your local scouting equipment seller) included a block of "pine wood", some plastic wheels, some nails and a few rules regarding minimum and maximum weight of the finished product (a race car). The Derby Project showcases Design (imagination, or "thinking outside the box"), Whittling skills (knife and tool safety), Patience (do it right the first time) and Diligence (finish what you start). Sadly (for some), it also showcases the amount of involvement of the parent/adult who "guides" and helps the boy. (More on this later).
Dad and Bryan developed a sketch for the car's profile and transfered it to the side of the wooden "block". They then cut away the excess material. They also had to decide upon a cross-section for the car, (how "fat or thin" the body would be) and start rounding the corners. From the side, the car looked similar to an airplane (go figure) with a "tail" that stuck up. From the front, it resembled a rounded brick. As the older brother and full-fledged Boy Scout, I suggested that the car have twin tailfins. That was my sole contribution to the project. The concept was adopted and implemented into the design. They cut and sanded a "groove" down the center of the tail, effectively giving the car a much more streamlined appearance (like a modern-day FA-18). Dad initially expressed concern about the removal of too much wood, because every splinter that was removed "lightened" the car by a milligram or two. But he had a solution for that, too. After the paint color had been decided upon, the nearly-completed car made yet another trip to the postal scales to see how far under the max gross weight it was. After ascertaining that amount, Dad figured out how many fishing weights (split shot sinkers) could be added to the car's body to bring it up to the desired weight. Now, here's the tricky part. In order to add weight to the car, a cavity had to be created for the weight to be placed in. If I were doing it now, I would drill a hole in the car, and put a plastic plug in the hole. I would then weigh the car, remove the plug, drop in the requisite number of weights and reinstall the plug. Easy solution, but potentially ineffective: shifting of the weights in the tubular cavity could move the center of gravity. So, the weights might have to be embedded in wax or glue. How much to use? Gotta figure in the weight of that, now. A solvable problem, and I am sure more than "team" used that method in one form or another. Dad's solution? Make a cavity, melt the lead sinkers, and pour the molten lead into the cavity. This way, the weight won't shift or rattle. What amazes me, now that I view this from an industrial designer's viewpoint, is that Dad had to figure out: the precise location of the car's center of gravity, the mass (weight) of the wood that had to be removed, the volume (area) of the wood removed, use these figures to modify the mass of the "ballast" required, the volume/sectional density of the lead. Additionally, Dad wanted to just "top off" the cavity, so that there wasn't a "hole" or "pile" showing on the car. End result? The molten lead came just to the surface of the cavity, the car was right at the target weight. The car was then painted, decals applied, and we waited for race day.
Race day arrived, finally, and we assembled at the Pack Meeting. All the cars were set out for pre-race display. This was where I felt embarrassed for another person for the first time. There were some awesome looking cars on display, testament to the involvement and dedication of the boys' fathers. And there were some "clunky-looking" cars as well: some 'cars' resembled painted bricks with rounded edges, and one poor kid had to display an unpainted, unmodified block of wood with wheels. The glue was probably still wet on the axles. I don't know who that car's owner was, but I felt bad for him. Granted, his father could have been overseas (this was, after all, an Air Force Base Cub Scout Pack), but couldn't SOMEONE have helped this kid with his project?
Anyway, our car did okay in the races. It wasn't "the winner", but then, "everybody there was a winner". They learned and experienced teamwork, and (most kids, anyway) spent "quality time" with their Dad. I am glad that my little brother got to do that a couple of times while he was in Cub Scouts. (And I am sure he has enjoyed the togetherness he has shared with his sons as he helped them with THEIR Pinewood Derby cars.) For my brother's humorous outlook on his first Pinewood Derby, go to http://www.imperfectparent.com/articles/not-your-fathers-pinewood-derby/675_1/. As for me, I am continually amazed and humbled by just how incredible Dad was at everything he did.

The Phantom Lives On

As I said earlier, Dad has been gone for six years now. My "baby sister" went to visit his grave on the anniversary. She left some flowers, and took some pictures.

About a year after Dad passed away, I ended up getting laid off from my job. I found another job rather quickly, but decided that before I started working, I would use some of my fairly generous severance package and take my family to Florida for a vacation. While there, we of course went to Disney World, and also took a trip around the state to visit my mother, my stepmother, and my sisters. While driving through northern Florida, I stopped to visit Dad's grave. The Phantom resting on his headstone was there then, too. Yes, it is getting beat up. It probably blows off the stone during storms, and someone always puts it back. That little plane has been there for at least five years, that I know of. And, it will probably be there for many years to come. I'm sure it will be there for my next visit, which won't be for a few years, probably. My (40-year!?) class reunion will be in 2012, and I don't know that I will be getting to Florida before that. But, just like Dad, no matter how worn or tired that little plane gets to looking, it will serve proudly until it can no more.

Hudson Landing

Recently, an airliner belly-landed in the Hudson River. By now, the whole world has probably heard about it. No fatalities occurred. Listening to the audio tapes of the final transmissions prior to "splashdown" will show that the pilot was cool, calm, and collected. The pilot in command was a fighter pilot in the F-4 for most of the 70's. I wondered for a brief while if he had been under my father's tutelage while learning to fly the Phantom. Although it would have been cool, I don't think that they ever met. Captain Sullenberger, according to information on the internet, flew Phantoms from 1973-1980. Dad was at the Pentagon prior to that, and retired from the Air Force at the end of 1973.
The flight crew of the airliner became instant celebrities: a guest appearance at the Super Bowl, appearances on late-night talk shows, and news magazines (printed and televised). I don't (in any way, shape, manner, fashion, or form,) mean to sound like I am saying "ho-hum, they landed in the water"; what the guy did was still incredible. I never met the guy, and I am still proud of him. He was doing his job, like he was trained to do it. And, without a doubt, his fighter experience/discipline was a factor in his calm, successful dealing with a problem. It could have been disastrous, but, because of his training and experience, it had a happy ending. Dad (and a host of other great pilots) would have handled it the same way. And, though I can't speak for Captain Sullenberger, I know that Dad would have been more than a little embarrassed at all the attention given him, no matter how great a job he did. He would have been grateful for the opportunity to serve. I applaud and salute you, "Sully". Your passengers and their families (and the world) do, too. You are, indeed, a fighter pilot.

Addendum

It seems that no matter where I go, what I do, or who I am around, I think about my Dad. Actually, I am reminded of my Dad. If I am around a bunch of rowdy foul-mouthed people, I reflect on how different they are from Dad. If they are well mannered, articulate, disciplined, I think that they may have been raised like Dad was. The word "discipline" is an interesting word. I see the root word "disciple" in it. As we are probably all aware, a "disciple" is a follower or adherent to a doctrine or way of life. I consider manners to be a strong doctrine in and of itself. So are patriotism, dependability, fidelity, selflessness and generosity to name a few more. I know that I "railed" about the person from Washington abusing (in my opinion) the right to freedom of expression. I read something today: (paraphrased) "If we can't tolerate the freedom of expression from someone whose causes we abhor, then we have no freedom of expression". So, I guess that person had the right to feel that way, but I thought it was a low-class way of expressing it. Other than that, I stand by my earlier post!
To continue, Dad was disciplined. He adhered to the doctrines and teachings from his youth, and abided by them his entire life. And, like his parents, he tried to teach the same values to his children as he had been taught. Some of those lessons were learned "at his knee", some learned "on his knee", and a few were taught "across his knee".

I'm Wearing my (Soap Box) Derby

As I was driving home from work today, I happened to get behind a Subaru from Washington (state) that had a message written across the back window that read, "If you will kiss my ASS OBAMA, I will be a good Christian and turn the other cheek." What a jerk. Is he/she upset because Obama won the election, because he is African-American, or just exhibiting the right to freedom of expression? I'm sorry, but when your "freedom of expression" may necessitate my explaining something to my kids or grandkids that I may not be ready to discuss at this point in their lives, you are crossing the line, in my opinion. (Luckily I didn't have any kids with me at the time. But why should I have to even think about it?) Why don't you JOIN the Country in supporting the guy who has the job of trying to fix the mess we have collectively gotten ourselves into instead of bitching and whining. I have already said that no, I did not vote for President Obama. But dammit, he IS my President and I will support him and pray for him. (I think) my parents were Republicans when I was growing up. I only say this because I remember in the 1964 election, I was "rooting" for the Democratic incumbent. I remember Mom indicating that she and Dad had tendencies toward the Republican candidate, Barry Goldwater. I also remember, in late 1963, when (Democrat) President Kennedy was shot. The news broadcasts did not yet know whether he had been killed or not, only that he had been shot. When Walter Cronkite announced that President Kennedy was dead, my mother, who was weeping, cried out, "They've got to be wrong!" and wept harder. I was in 4th grade at the time, and was home from school because I was sick. I remember the day well. Neither my mother or father EVER thought about belittling the man or his office. No, they probably didn't help vote JFK into office. But they damned sure supported him in his office, and didn't whine or publicly insult him by putting a lame-ass message across the back window of their cars. It just makes me sick and embarrassed that people abuse not only their right to express themselves, but offend everyone else who happens to be on the same road, or in the same room. I am not against diversity, it is one of the key factors in our electoral process. In the Pledge of Allegiance (remember it?) we not only swear our alliance to the flag, but also to the "Republic" that it represents. A "republic" is a system of government that is run by the people through elected officials. Part of the rules are that: if your guy doesn't win, the worst you can say about him(her) is that he/she came in second. Number two in a nation full of people isn't bad. Don't be a bad sport, support the winner. You still have a "say" in the running of the country. Quit bitching, wipe your nose, and help the rest of us fix the problems! I know it is cliche', but Love it or Leave it.
Dad did not join the military because of President Eisenhower or any other politician. He joined because, first and foremost, he loved this country and was willing to die, if necessary, to preserve the fundamental rights and freedoms for the rest of us. Even those bozos who abuse them.

Where does the time go?

This month will mark the sixth anniversary of Dad's passing. It sometimes seems that he has been gone much longer than just six short years. I guess it's because he was so much a part of my life. His influence has been a pattern (off-and-on) for the shaping of my life or, rather, the path(s) that my life has taken over the last 50 years or so. Even if I hadn't heard from him for a while, he was always there. So maybe, because he is thought about or spoken of every day, it seems longer. At the same time, it seems like just yesterday, or just last week, that we all assembled together for his funeral. Again, probably because he is in our thoughts daily, the memories of him are still "fresh" in our minds.
That is one of the reasons that I started this literary tribute to him: to keep (my) memories alive as well as share them with family and friends. I may tend to "ramble" in some of my posts, but I try to include something relating to Dad in each one of them because he really was (is) a guiding influence for me. I wouldn't be the man that I am, if not for the man that he was. (We miss you, Dad)

New "Flight Leader"

Today, I watched the inauguration of President Obama. He has, of course, been the topic of many discussions, conversations, and debates as of late. I know that my father, while he was alive, had high hopes and support for Senator McCain. A lot of things have changed in the years since he passed away. But one thing would not have changed. Dad would support the President, no matter who he/she was, with all his might, mind, and spirit. The fact that Obama is an "African-American" would never enter the equation. I was talking to my wife, and related (again) the story about Mom and Dad looking for base housing at Davis-Monthann AFB: While looking at the housing map, a woman pointed to one address and said that they would not "want that house", because the neighbors were Negroes. Dad immediately said, "We'll take it".

This country has undergone a lot of change in the last 40 or so years. I remember, even as late as the 70's, seeing signs in the rural South that said "colored entrance", and "whites only". I hope that they were just "left overs" from an earlier era, and had no real significance. But I also remember, while growing up (and not only in the South), hearing racial slurs and epithets. I was lucky. I was never taught bigotry or prejudice. Through the years, some of my best friends and co-workers have been something other than "white". Mexican, Indian, Vietnamese, Chinese, African-American, Japanese, you name it. Every "color of the rainbow". I am grateful to my parents for raising me to look at the person, not the "box they are wrapped in".

I didn't vote for Obama, but I support and respect him and the Office that he holds, and he will be in my prayers. I believe that he is a man of integrity, a gentleman, a Fighter Pilot.

Sure could use those air miles

My sincere thanks and appreciation to Guenter Grondstein for allowing me to use his beautiful photographs.

As anyone in my family will tell you, I have become "obsessed" with finding out about the planes that Dad flew. The one that I have been able to find out about continues to thrill me. I discovered recently that one of the model kit manufacturers made a model of the F4 that has the tail number that Dad flew in Viet Nam. Now I need to find one or more of the kits. Evidently, judging from the stars on the left intake, this plane has had some interesting encounters besides the one where Dad and the newby picked up a round from ground fire. I couldn't even hazard a guess as to how many miles this plane logged before finally coming to rest, her last assignment: that of guarding the gate at Nellis AFB in Nevada. Before that, she served in the Hawaii Air National Guard. If I could have the "sky miles" she has earned, I could probably fly to the moon. And Dad logged a good portion of those miles. Cool.