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Coincidence that I think of Dad. See, I bought my ticket two weeks ago, choosing a seat at the time, a window seat (I prefer those sometimes), the first open seat on the left side of the plane. Without a thought.
So today, I got to my seat, got settled in, ate a snack, and didn't open the closed window shade until we were moving from the gate.
I just took a glance at where we were, looked out a bit as we crossed over the road entrance to the airport, and then I realized I'm in the very seat that I used to sit in when I was a wee-tot. I can imagine like it was yesterday on trips when I'd get upset if I wasn't in a window seat, or how Dad could tell me again what was gonna happen to the wing before it happened.
"Why does the wing do that, Daddy?"
And then I can hear his voice again, explaining things with whatever-age-I-was-at-the-time words and phrases, and always amazed at how he knew every question was coming. And how I got older, and asked more questions, and him still knowing every answer. And me giddy watching the wing "come apart" just to "go back together" after we landed.
At a certain point, maybe high school age, we stopped flying for vacations. I learned later that since Dad flew airplanes for a living and stayed in hotels all the time, and really despised eating out. My parents bought their first motorhome, and we started driving on trips.
He still worked, now getting enough seniority to pick his own trips, and enjoying the flying part. I knew that the bullshit-of-life stuff happens everywhere, and it was really getting to him toward the end of his career. This year after he passed on, I learned a lot about what Dad accomplished in his career.
I didn't quite realize until he was gone, of course, just how much he worked to get there. How much he wanted it. How he studied. Over and over. How he got re-certified when it was due, and always seeming to pass with every question right. Perfection.
When we cleaned out the storeroom, my sister and I found stacks and stacks of all kinds of crap from years and years back. One of the things on the shelf, been there for years, and I knew they had been there for as long as I can remember. But I didn't know that even training manual for every plane he flew was there. His old scores. His notes. Over and over. His old log books of the years he flew, including the fuel calculations and other figures that pilots had to make happen before flying.
My Dad was a worker, and he worked for everything he obtained. Growing up on a farm, and driving lime trucks across state lines at night at 14, with crap on the pedals so he could reach them. That was because he had to; he flew because he wanted to. And he did with pride.
I have his brainbag. This is the bag that pilots carry with them, usually rectangular in shape, with stickers or insignias or whatever in the side, containing flight maps, a mask, and other stuff. I actually haven't opened it in since I got it, and now am curious about what other crap is in his brainbag.
I wonder if his 'change' is in there. Dad carried change with him for the Stewardesses, and always told them he had change if they needed it. Back when you bought drinks on flights with cash (I say back then because the one I'm on just takes plastic) people would buy drinks with a $20 bill, hoping that the drink lady wouldn't have change, therefore scoring a free drink.'. So, Dad made change.
He told me of one time ran out of change. There was a guy buying drinks, and using twenties to get them. The stewardess would come get change for a twenty, twenty $1 bills. The stewardess would then go back to the guy, and promptly count out 17 $1 bills to him.
Now I don't know if it was just the one guy drinking six drinks on that one flight hellbent on receiving a free one, but he "lost" 102 $1 bills somewhere in his shirt. Or somewhere else. Who knows? But I know that's a pretty thick stack of bills when folded over.
Or the time when I was a wee-tot that he used a favor to get his son into the mechanics shop where they had the model plane he was flying at the time completely torn apart for overhaul. They had the floor panels torn out along with the seats so you could see through the floor into the baggage area, and the flight stick out of the floor followed by a rats nest of wires, and some panel boards off; that was really cool. And I know I had questions, and he had all the answers for me in how-ever-old-I-was-then words and phrases. He never seemed irritated. I know now it was his love. He love flying.
He knew all those answers partly because he was a mechanic in the Army, and worked his way up through Delta Air Lines. He was a mechanic for 12 years and then drove planes for 25 after that.
I am reminded of the day he flew last. On your last flight, before you reach the gate, the fire trucks and sprayers and emergency vehicles escort you, and then they 'wash' the plane. It is evidently a sight to see. I want to say there's a picture somewhere, framed, of his actual plane getting the bath, It was a day to behold evidently.
I guess all these emotions came out of me because I want to ask him just one more question. And then maybe a few more. I want to tell him about how proud I was. I want to tell him how much I love him. And I want to tell him about my plans, my dreams, about what I'm doing so he can be proud of me like I know he was.
I don't however, want to tell him that I, subconsciously, maybe, was taking advantage of being able to support him in the last year, or two, and delaying my life (in a small way, of course) from moving on like he encouraged me to do. But I do want to tell him what I'm doing now.
I miss you Dad. And I love you still.
