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.