My Mom called August 8th, 2012 at 9:24 AM. The call lasted 34 seconds: Come home, your Dad died.
He had not been sick, I had talked to him a week earlier and he sounded fine. The next few days were basically a blur. A four-hour drive to get home, the crushing emptiness of walking in the door knowing he was not there. Guilt and regret came in waves over the next four days. The guilt of not seeing him enough, the regrets of memories never to be made, new jokes never to be told. I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that these regrets will not ever go away.
My last conversation with him just 8 days before, I told him that I had planed to fly my little light sport aircraft the two hours North to visit him that next weekend. He was excited about it- He earned his pilots license in 1963 at 23 years old. He flew 600 hours before my older brother Steve was born. His logbook entries slowed when my brother was born, and pretty much stopped when I came along.
Even without him flying, my father still loved flight. Steve always built model cars, but for as long as I can recall Dad always gave me model planes. When I was old enough, my Dad got me a little control line model plane with a highly unreliable two stroke .049 engine that we spent much more time trying to start, than we ever flew. This little noisemaker was supposed to fly in a small circle with the ‘pilot’ at the center using two lines to control the elevator. When we did get the little engine started my Dad would let it go and I would try desperately to keep it from crashing. I failed almost every flight in-spite of my father yelling advice over the ear splitting shriek of the little engine. Later when I turned 13 these crash filled circles morphed into larger planes flown by radio control. My Dad built my first one on the dining room table; he used my Mom’s household iron to tightly shrink the plastic covering… She was not amused. Most weekends he would drive me out to the miniature airport. He would sometimes stay and watch, sometimes work from the car, and sometimes run errands while I learned to ‘fly’. At the time, I pretty much lived for these weekends.
By 21 I had started learning to fly real planes, and 43 hours later I had my license. I took my Dad flying two weeks after I got my ticket and on my first landing with him, I *greased* the landing - It was so smooth, the only way you knew we were on the ground was that you could hear the wheels rolling on the tarmac. I turned to him full of pride and his remark, "Bet you can't do that again".
Then, like my father, my life got in the way. It was work and cost not kids that kept me on the ground. But my Dad and I talked about flying all those years and we talked about buying a light sport plane. But work had me move over and over again and we just could not start the project. I finally was moved again, this time only about 4 hours from my Dad and I saved up and bought the very same model of plane we had talked about building together. We talked about getting him current and flying around together.
I had flown up once to see him, but the weather was rolling in and Dad and I agreed that I should take off and head home. As I flew home I had to divert for some storms and I managed to push the plane into the hangar right before the storm hit. I didn’t get to take him up on that trip, and work and weather kept me from making another trip to include the trip we talked about in our last phone call. Now he would never fly in ‘our’ plane. They always say that it is the regrets that hurt the most – Its true.
After the funeral I stopped by the airport on the way back home. Storm clouds all around, but not any in the vicinity. I rolled the plane out, fired it up, and it was some of the smoothest air I can remember. I had my wife in the back seat, but I unplugged my mike from the intercom and talked to my Dad. I apologized for not having taken the time and flown up to see him so I could of had that flight with him.... I guess I am lucky; I did get to fly with my Dad a few times, 3.6 hours total, even if it was 17 years ago.
As I was talking to him, the sun came out. I realized that throughout my life my Dad had been there, supporting my dream of aviation, encouraging my efforts and enjoying my successes. 30 minutes later, I pushed the plane back into the hangar and read my old logbook entries of when I did get to fly with my father... As I logged the half hour, I logged it as dual received.