For several years in a row starting when I was in junior high, my dad used to take me to the Point Mugu Naval Air Show. Military aviation was something we had in common and the Point Mugu show was always terrific. That was the show I first saw the F-14, the F-15 (which at the time was the only jet that could actually accelerate on a vertical climb), the F-16, and even the SR-71, which is still my favorite aircraft of all time. Anyway, one particular year—and this might have been around 1979 or 1980—as we walked around the show, we overheard people talking about the Harrier, which neither one of us had ever heard of. After one of the various demonstrations, we heard the announcer over the PA tell the crowd that the Harrier was approaching for a flyby and it seemed as though all eyes turned to the sky above the runway. As the jet flew by, the crowd went absolutely nuts, clapping and cheering. My dad was filming the whole thing on Super 8—which my stepmother recently sent me in a box of dozens of other Super 8 rolls—and when the Harrier was out of sight, he lowered the camera and we just sort of looked at each other, wondering what was so special. It didn’t seem all that different than any of the other flybys we had seen. A few minutes later, the Harrier came back for another pass, which my dad also filmed. But this time, instead of simply flying by, the Harrier slowed down and just stopped in midair. It just sat there, hovering. Then it turned toward the crowd, flew sideways to the left, then sideways back to the right, and then it stopped, slowly rotated 360 degrees, and bowed. It actually bowed to the crowd before rotating 90 degrees back down the runway and it flew off. I looked at my dad, who again lowered the camera, but now had a look on his face that I don’t know that I had ever seen before. It was astonishment with a dash of confusion and disbelief at what he’d just witnessed.
My dad had a very “mechanical” brain in that he had the ability to not just figure things out, but also to be able to see how and why things worked—as if he had an exploded view of the thing, whatever it was, in his head. I didn’t get that from him, at least not to that degree. I can often figure things out, but it takes me longer and I’m not able to see the details in the same way he could. My dad could take apart and reassemble engines in his sleep, but with the Harrier, he just wasn’t able to see exactly what was going on—at least not at first—and to be honest, it was kind of fun to be able to share in that moment with him. Once he got a good look at the thing on the ground and could see the four nozzles that vectored the thrust from the massive Rolls-Royce Pegasus engine, it all made perfect sense.
Despite the fact that my mom died in 2009 and my dad in 2013, this time of year can still be hard for me. Starting about the week before Thanksgiving, my mom would decorate the house to the point that it looked like a Hallmark store. Dad wasn’t into the holidays much, but since he died in November, the loss looms larger this time of year and just makes me miss both of them more than I already do.
Some of my favorite memories of my dad are when the two of us were making things together. It was when he was at his most patient and encouraging with me, especially if I demonstrated any sort of skill at the task at hand. For example, he taught me to weld when I was 11 or 12, first with an oxy-acetylene torch, then an arc welder, and finally a MIG welder, which was by far my favorite. I took to it straight away and he would give me little assignments using bits of scrap metal. He was very hands-on teaching me to control the heat, the depth, and speed of my welds. By the time I was in high school, I was welding some of the independent suspension parts for the single-seat dune buggies he built as a side business. He was definitely a harsh taskmaster. Adrianne has told me many times, “boy, he really did a number on you.” And she’s right. But a job well done occasionally earned a rare bit of praise and his approval meant the world to me. In some ways, it probably still does. Despite how hard he was on me, I think he’s one of the big reasons that I value effort the way that I do. Effort is a way to be seen, at least it was between me and my dad, and effort done well is a chance to learn something new—which in a way means you become more valuable than you were before.
It’s funny. My dad and I sometimes had a very difficult relationship and for years I had to cast him as the villain in my story to substantiate or legitimize the feelings I had about him, but some of the photos of my childhood that my stepmother Linda sent me earlier in the year tell a different story. I think we sometimes take on the role of revisionist when it comes to our histories—certain parts of them anyway. I’m not saying that our relationship didn’t have its challenges because it definitely did. But there was some good in there too and that often gets lost in the memories. The great actor John Hurt once said, “I’d rather have memory than photographs, because I prefer—however inaccurate my memory is—I prefer that memory than one which is prompted by the tedious reality of a photograph.” I understand what he’s saying and I think I mostly agree, except when the photograph helps to unravel a forgotten memory that shows a better time, a happier place, or a moment of joy between a father and son.
Questions:
Is there a particular memory that has had a dramatic impact on either who you are or what you value?
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Appreciate the audio of this, while the read was good as always. Appreciated hearing it in your voice.
Boy this brought tears to my eyes and a flood of memories. I lost both mom and dad in the past ten years and it's still very hard. I wish now, that I had spoken with them more and shared more of my life.
For some reason though my college aged son shares with me. I hope it continues. That's a gift I never expected.