In a couple of months we'll mark the fourth anniversary of my father's death. Sometimes it seems like he's been gone for much longer, and other times it feels like he's still here -- as though I could pick up the phone and hear his voice say, "Hey, puddin'." I'd give almost anything to hear those words again.
I think about him, or something reminds me of him, at the strangest times.
Last week I stopped for a diet coke on the way to school. SHOCKING! There's always some sort of music playing outside this little mini-market, and when I came out John Denver's "Country Road" was playing. Daddy enjoyed John Denver's music, and I think he though him a pretty interesting fellow right up there until John got a little quirky toward the end of his life. Anyway, I remember riding with Daddy in his big old brown un-airconditioned truck and listening to the sah-weet sounds of John's singing from the 8-track player he'd rigged up. So when I heard the song playing, from what I'm sure was not a sweet 8-track tape player, I couldn't help but smile as my thoughts went immediately to Daddy.
Daddy had (I just typed "has" twice) several funny little sayings. One of them was, "Some people are just spring-loaded to blurt." I've always thought that was a hoot. Several months ago we had a substitute teacher in for one of our teachers and she joined us for lunch. One of the girls was telling about something that was going on in her life, and this sub interrupted her and started telling all kinds of horrible stories and making the most inappropriate comments about the subject. I don't think she was trying to be rude or thoughtless. I think she just liked to talk and has no inner filters. As I sat there, stunned, desperately thinking of a way to change the subject, I heard my father's voice. "Yep, spring-loaded to blurt...spring-loaded to blurt."
There was an event last Friday at our school where dads were invited to bring their children to school and have breakfast with them. Teachers enter through the cafeteria, and when I got there I was amazed to see the room packed with fathers and children. It was wonderful. As I was walking toward the teachers' lounge to sign in I noticed a man sitting and talking to another dad. The reason this man stood out was because he was wearing a Tennessee Air National Guard flight suit. Before I knew what I was doing I was standing next to this man, interrupting his conversation, and talking to him for a couple of minutes.
Daddy was a navigator in the Memphis unit for I don't know how many years. He loved that part of his life and made some of the best friends he'd ever had, and they were some of the nicest men I've ever known. Every now and then, Daddy would let me go with him to the Guard base on a Tuesday night when they were practicing "drops." (Daddy flew on C-!30 cargo planes, and each Tuesday they practiced dropping things out of the back of the airplanes aimed at certain targets.) While he was flying, I would ride with someone to the drop zone and watch.
Anyway, seeing this man Friday in a flight suit, one that I was so familiar with, brought back a flood of memories. When I was little, I loved to zip and unzip all the little pockets that were part of the suit. Every now and then Daddy would put a little surprise, usually a piece of candy or gum, in one of them. I remember the way he smelled after having been in one of the airplanes for several hours. It wasn't the greatest smell, but it's a very distinct one.
I remember his stories of his Guard days, most of which included funny things that he and his cronies had done. Like when they were on an overseas trip and Daddy and some men decided to go on a little sightseeing trip the morning before they were supposed to leave. As luck would have it they were late getting back to the base, and they were still in their civilian clothes. Whomever was in charge of making sure planes left on time at this particular base was a stickler and became increasingly upset with the crew, and I think he'd given one of the young pilots, Mack, a tongue lashing or two. Not knowing what else to do, Mack -- who'd been an aircraft mechanic before going to flight school -- did something minor to the plane so that he could stall this fellow a little longer. When Daddy and the others finally got to the plane, still dressed in their regular clothes -- a big NO-NO -- Mack undid whatever he'd done and they hightailed that big lounge lizard of a plane out of there, right after they gave Mack oxygen, because Daddy said he was as nervous and worked up as he'd ever seen anyone get.
Since Daddy was the navigator, he could plan their routes as they practiced different maneuvers, and every now and then, when they were practicing flying at 300 feet, the lowest that was legally allowed, Daddy would plan for them to make a swing over our hometown. Several times he flew over our house. He was able to tell my mother about when to expect them and we'd go out into the street or the field behind our house and wave dishtowels or something. We thought that was great fun. But his favorite thing to do was to fly over the country club late in the afternoon. The thing about the C-130s was that you didn't hear the darn things until they were almost on top of you, so it was a bit startling to hear one roaring right over you at 300 feet. It always scared the wits out of the golfers, and I think Mama was asked more than once, "Mary Ann, can't you do something about Darrell and that blasted airplane?" (Heck no. She thought it was as funny as Daddy did.)
I've said before that I have no bad memories of my father and that he was one man who did the daddy thing right. He was always fair both in his praise and in his discipline. I may not have liked the discipline/consequences part, but even then I knew it was fair and well deserved. He had a wonderful wit and sense of humor, and he gave people the benefit of doubt rather than rushing to judgment. He loved my mother. He loved my brother and me. And we all knew it. We could take his love and faithfulness to the bank.
I love it when something or someone out of the blue reminds me of my father. It always makes me smile. And though it also makes me a little sad that he's not still here, it makes me grateful for the time we had with him. I think that's how he'd want me to react rather than have, as he would say, "a complete and total come-apart."
Goodness, girl, it's with teary eyes that I type this. Your Daddy sounds just precious. I love that you are writing down these memories for your boys...they will treasure them, I am sure. I don't have many memories of my grandpa, just what my mom and sisters have told me over the years. Don't ever stop telling his stories.
:)
Posted by: Jennifer | 01/30/2012 at 04:40 AM