Stretching the Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but. . .

I sometimes wonder about lies that people tell, and the reasons they tell them. To keep from hurting feelings, and attempt to stay out of trouble are probably the two main reasons, and most people will admit it (if only to themselves). The problem with lies is that they compound a problem, because once told, they need constant reinforcement. Some people are so good at it that they (almost) end up believing it themselves. But they almost always get tripped up or, in a bout of conscience, "come clean". Coming clean before getting caught is always better. I remember a "whopper" that I told that could have cost me my job. But first, a little background:



I was working in the machine shop of a defense contractor. My foreman was a good man, as were most of the supervisors in the shops. The assistant foreman in the weld shop was the father of a guy that I had gone to school with. He and I had not been "close friends", but we had "hung out" together during P.E. class, mainly because neither of us were highly athletic. He was kind of a brainy kid with nonexistent social skills. Nowadays we call them Nerds. Anyway, this kid was a "Junior", meaning that he had been named after his father. So I recognized the name of his father. His father had built some (for lack of a better description) sculptures out of metal: two humanoid forms that he had on either side of his driveway. One of them had an "arm" out holding the mailbox. The other held a garbage can with each arm. I had seen these works of welders' art many times over the years. I knew whose house it was, although I had not yet met his father, and had not figured out that his dad was a welder.

The State of Florida made a mistake that they later corrected. They allowed the drinking age to drop to 18. I happened to be 19 years old when it took effect. I was visiting one of the favored watering holes one Saturday afternoon. I was seated at the bar nursing a beer, and happened to overhear a conversation between some guys about my age seated a few seats away from me. The conversation centered around a prank that one of the guys had been a party to. It involved the digging up and theft of one of the "metal men" that I mentioned earlier. The story was highly entertaining and many aspects of the escapade were described in great detail, from the month and year to how they had placed the metal man in a phone booth at the junior high, from placing the phone in its "hand" to calling the police and reporting a spaceman from another planet at the junior high. I chuckled to myself, because I knew whose metal men they were talking about. A few months later, I was transferred to the weld shop, where I eventually got the opportunity to learn the trade that would support me for the next 30 or more years. As in the machine shop, my welding foreman was a pretty good guy. He was always up for a practical joke, as long as nobody got hurt and nobody got into a fight over it. One afternoon, I saw him and the assistant foreman talking. After the assistant foreman (my friend's dad) left the shop, I went over to talk to the foreman. Knowing that he had a rich sense of humor, I related every detail from the "metal man caper" with one added detail: I included myself, as if I had been right in the middle of it all. He thought it was funny, then gently reminded me to "get back to work". I got back to my welding, and when I looked up, my boss was gone. About 5 minutes later, when I raised my welding helmet, the ASSISTANT FOREMAN was standing right next to me. And I couldn't tell if he was in a good mood or not. He had wondered for almost a year what had happened, and now, here was the "guilty party".


"Next time you take my girl out, make sure she makes it home", he said to me. Caught by surprise, I could only sputter "that is a GIRL?" He started laughing, and now, up to my eyeballs in the lie, I answered his questions, filling in any details that I had earlier left out, but had overheard. The man didn't trust me for years. He later was promoted to foreman, and I was subject to his criticism and scorn. To try to set things right, and tell him that I actually had no part in the aforementioned escapade, would not have been an option. He would have trusted me even less. He and I were like "oil and water" for years. I remember him telling me one time, after one of our heated exchanges, "If I didn't need you, I'd fire you right now." To which I replied, "I guess it's a good thing that I'm such a good welder!" He spat on the floor and walked away.

About a year earlier, we the bosses had called one of their "all hands meetings", where they would fill us in on pending contracts, workloads, etc. Usually, there were one or more "problems" that were also addressed: people using their sick leave to go fishing (one person was actually spotted fishing when he had called in "sick"), or not calling in if one was not going to be at work that day. "The next person that does not come in, and does not call in, will be fired". Guess who the next person was. Thankfully, the powers-that-were decided not to fire me, but did place a letter in my file that I had to sign ackowledging that there would not be another incidence. Grateful that I still had a job, I looked the Director of Personell in the eye and told him that I would prove to him that he had made the right decision, and that in 3 years, I would be the "best welder" in the Company. I always made it a point to call in after that.

Anyway, my foreman and I were at constant odds. I used to (literally) dream of ways to make sure he had an "accident". One day, he and I (we still had to WORK together) were rearranging an area of the shop, he directing me on the forklift. The forks were up about three feet off the floor, and he walked in front of me. (This part still ashames me, and scares me to this day). I felt my foot start to slide off of the clutch pedal. I had a brief vision, just a millisecond, of him being impaled on one of the forks. I slammed on the brakes, dropped the forks, and turned off the engine. "I gotta hit the men's room", I said by way of explanation. I went in the bathroom and started shaking. Luckily, he had never known or noticed just how close he came to possibly dying. And, luckily for me, it was almost time to go home for the day. I requested, and was granted, a week off. I did a lot of thinking and soul-searching during the next week. I saw, and faced up to the fact, that I had been terribly foolish, stupid, arrogant, and disrespectful. I was (and still am) ashamed of myself for what could have been a tragedy of my design.

I returned to work after my week-long vacation a new man, strike that, just "a man". I set about repairing the damage I had done to the working relationship. It took some time, but we actually became friends after a while. A year or two afterward, our workload was rather light in the welding area, so I had been working in the machine shop for about six months. At quitting time one day, one of the welders caught me on the way out and told me that Certification Testing would be done the next day. I figured that I would run my welds and fail and life would go on. I came in the next day, and took all the tests for aluminum, steel, and stainless steel. Imagine my surprise when, about three weeks later, the test results came back. Out of more than twenty welders, I was the only one that had passed all of the tests! This meant that I was the only person who could work on some of the jobs in the shop. There were some who resented the fact that they were "outdone" by a young kid with a ponytail down his back, and I was even approached with wagers, "I'll bet you a hundred dollars you couldn't do it again". 'Turns out that the foreman was the next-highest "qualified" guy in the shop. So, we had the opportunity to work together a lot. At some point in time, he "stepped down" from the Foreman position and assumed the duties of the Assistant Foreman. I think there were some health issues that necessitated the move.

One day, I was called into the Director of Personell's office again. We chatted for a little while, and then he handed me a piece of paper. It was the "letter" from my file. "We don't need for this to be in your folder any more. I don't know if you remember, but when this letter went INTO your file, you told me that you would be the best welder in the Company. As far as I am concerned, you have succeeded in that goal." I might add that, in addition to "directing personell", he was actually the Head of Engineering and knew his way quite skillfully around all of the shops: sheet metal, machining, welding. "In fact, we are making you the Assistant Weld Shop Foreman." I threw myself into the position with gusto. Here I was, maybe 24 years old, with 27 welders under my command, many of whom had been welding longer than I had been breathing! My former nemesis had been working in our smaller weld shop, many times by himself, doing some of the smaller and more "precision" work. I would make it a point to pass through the small weld shop and see how things were going, and suggest job prioities to him. About five months after my promotion, I again raised my welding hood to see him staring at me. "How long have you been the Assistant Foreman?" I told him it had been about five months or so. "I sure wish the hell somebody had told ME". Somehow, he had never been officially notified of my promotion. I felt bad for him, but also took pride in the fact that I had never let the job "go to my head", so he had never felt threatened. We were friends from then on. I heard that he had passed away about four years or so after that. I had moved on to new jobs and new places. But I still never got to tell him the truth about his metal man.

In Memorium

I spoke on the phone today with one of my oldest and dearest friends, also a Fighter Pilot's son. We reminisced about our Fathers and how they had managed to cheat Death in their youth, flying what were (then) the best and fastest airplanes in the U.S. Air Force. I told him of one of my last conversations with Dad, when I got to ask him, "How high did you fly? How fast have you flown? What was it like the first time you soloed in a fighter jet?" I never did (get to) ask him what it was like in War. He never spoke much about it to me. I don't know if he ever talked with Mom or not about it. I know that it must have taken a toll on him, even though, for the most part, it was probably a lot more "impersonal" from up in the air. I do remember that he spent part of a night under his cot because of an enemy mortar attack. He did tell us about that.
Today is Memorial Day. I know that most people relate this day to remembering those who have fallen, given their all, for their Country. But this day is also for remembering those who didn't necessarily die for our Freedoms, or the defense of those Freedoms, but for remembering all those who are dear to us. . .those that have passed on and, yes, those that are still with us. While talking to my friend, we of course talked about our fathers. I already said that. But I also thought of my daughter Hilarie, and the almost "tangible" bond she had with my Dad. I miss them both immensely.
When I got off the phone with my friend, the dogs needed to go out and potty. When I took the first one out (the "dawdler" of the two), I heard some jets flying nearby. I looked up and saw a flight of F-16's flying over, probably returning from a fly-over for a Memorial Day ceremony or parade. They were still in formation. The "Missing Man" formation. Just a gentle reminder, for me, that the sacrifices go on. Pray for those who serve, and for the families who have given of themselves for us.

The Cost of "Freedom"

I remember when Hilarie, our older daughter, decided to move back home to "get a grip" on some of her finances etc., before eventually striking out on her own to try again. (I know that I had multiple "moves back home" when I was younger, before finally making it on my own.) We told Hilarie that she would always be welcomed at home, but since she was moving back "under our roof", she would again be subject to (most of) the same rules she had while growing up: We would not enforce a "curfew" for her, as she was now 23; we would, however, appreciate that she not play her music/tv too loud during the later hours when we were trying to sleep, we would like her to let us know if she was not going to be home until very late (if at all), and that she let us know that she was home when she arrived in the wee hours (just an "I'm home, Goodnight") so that we wouldn't worry unnecessarily. Etc., etc. However, in exchange for her "freedoms", we did expect that she carry her own weight financially, i.e.: pay us a reasonable rent every month. Not so large as to place a burden on her, but somewhere between $200 and $300 a month. This would still be cheaper than her previous rent, and we would absorb the utilities. Also, she would be responsible for her own entertainment (movies, video/computer games, fast food, etc.). This did not mean that she had to be entirely self-sufficient, she was still welcome to eat with us, etc. One thing that she was not told when she was moving back home was, that I planned to put half of her monthly "rent" in an account to remain untouched until such time as she was ready to "try it again on her own", at which time the funds would be available for deposits, "first and last", etc., depending upon how long she had been back home. Sadly, she passed away (at "home") before any of these could be implemented.

Now, our other daughter is wanting to move out and share a place with some close friends, a married couple and their two young children. This will be her first attempt at "leaving the nest". Her mother and I have concerns, just like we did with her sister (and I am sure that my mother had similar concerns for me) but are willing to let her try. As most of us know from experience, this is a "wake-up call" and a definite learning experience. Money that used to go for fast food and snacks and video games now goes for structured grocery shopping and menu planning. Money that used to go for clothes and cute shoes needs to go for rent, utilities, and transportation costs (either bus passes or gas money). Words like "lease", "contract", and "past due" take on a whole new meaning. In exchange for sacrifices, freedoms are attained. If, after a while, she needs to come back home to regroup, she will of course be welcomed home with open arms. And we will expect the same from her as we did for her older sister. Freedoms and Liberties will be available, but they will come with a price.

In this Country, we brag of our "Freedom" and "Liberty". Have we ever considered the cost of these? Our freedom to buy or rent a home is countered by the right of the bank or landlord to exact a payment from us. Our right to live on nothing but Whoppers and Big Macs is countered by not only prohibitive cost, but probable health risks as well. Our right to complain about government is guaranteed by that same government, but if one does not get involved (vote, pay taxes, etc.) in the administering of that government, then that person has no freedom to complain. The list of our Freedoms is almost endless. We enjoy more liberties and freedoms than any other nation on Earth. But at a cost. My father recognized this. He understood just how fortunate, and how obligated, we are. He was willing to support the continuation of these freedoms, even at the cost of his life, if necessary. He was willing, when asked, to go into harm's way to preserve these rights for the rest of us. And he wasn't the only one. Many, many men (and women) have gone to battle at the request of their Country. Most of them have come home to enjoy ongoing freedom with their families. Some have not. I would like to think that most, if not all, of them understood and accepted the possible sacrifice involved with preserving our rights.

So, to my daughter: Go forth and stretch your wings. Fall to the ground. Get up and dust yourself off and try again. Pay your bills. Don't pay your bills. Splurge on yourself. Be hungry. Be humbled. Find your strengths. Address your weaknesses. Enjoy your freedom, but be prepared for the cost. Come "home" if you need to. And when you finally succeed, you will see and know that it was worth all the trouble and hard times, and you will be stronger for it. We love you, Dad and Mom.

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.

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.