Father's Day

Well, I woke up this morning and forgot that it was supposed to be a special day for me. I mean, it was special; I got to attend mass for the first time in over three months. It was rough; taped off seats, anti-social distancing all over the place, no singing...but it's a start. I hope things get better soon, though.

Anyway, it is Father's Day, and my wife made some sweet breakfast after I got back from mass (and had a quick nap). She's awesome, and the boys even bought me a Kindle so I could get my own books from Amazon. Very thoughtful of them, I think. It's just a reader, not a full-on tablet, but that's fine. Reading is the primary function of the tablet anyway.

But enough about me; I want to talk about a different father: My father. I'm not quite sure where to begin, but I'll start with the beginning. Dad was in the Air Force when I was born, and while my earliest memories of him are from places where he flew big, bulky aircraft, the most vivid memories I have of him in uniform involve the CF-101 Voodoo fighter-interceptors. I love that plane; it's no longer used, but man, was it a sweet-looking plane.

As far as my math goes, Dad flew these (in the back seat; he was a navigator, not the pilot) for about six years, his last in the service before retiring and moving on to other things (and cities). He's got some pretty cool stories about those missions, too; he flew up into the Arctic Circle to intercept Russian planes coming over the pole, for example. And these weren't friendly meet-and-greets; they were carrying serious ordnance in case things got icky.

Not all the memories are great, though; I remember a time shortly before Dad retired when Mom got a phone call from the base saying that one of the Voodoos had crashed, but the crew weren't identified yet. I remember the look on Mom's face while we waited for news. It was like a weird case of Schrodinger's Dad, where I did but didn't have a father. Thankfully, he called home shortly thereafter to let us know that he was safe. Unfortunately, two of his close friends were in that plane, and some of my friends at school suddenly found themselves living off survivor's benefits. That was in fourth or fifth grade, but I've never forgotten that time.

My father's done a lot of things over the past forty years since then; he worked as a stock broker and as a real estate agent, but he never quit flying. He even served in the Civil Air Patrol after moving to the States, finally earning his elusive promotion to Major after 43 years as a Captain. Well-deserved, Dad.

My father wasn't perfect, of course; only my heavenly Father gets that descriptor. But he did what he felt was best for me and my younger sister. We always had a home and food on the table, and he coached me in hockey and soccer. I've tried to follow that example with my own boys, at least the ones who are athletic. He supported me in whatever I tried to do, even when I failed miserably. In short, he was as good a Dad as a boy could ask for.

So, on this Father's Day, when the old man is closing in on 80 years old, I'll just take this opportunity to say, 'Thanks, Dad.' I hope that my boys will be able to say the same thing to me someday; if they do, it'll be because I learned how to be a father from him.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I hope we celebrate a lot more together.

While I don't have any stories about the air force or fatherly wisdom, I did just release another Cameron Vail mystery, Cold Star. Check it out, and maybe get a copy for your own father.