"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".