Model Airplane Clubs California
Remembering Dad on Father’s Day
Forty-six, 47, 48… I found myself counting underwater. I lost track of the numbers as my thoughts drifted, bathed in the warmth and bubbles of the Jacuzzi. My dad was, no doubt, howling at the moon. He’s often found it easier to express himself as an animal. I was told by my aunt that when he was a boy, he was once unceremoniously removed from the dinner table for acting like a dog. His dad locked him outside the back door “until he could act properly.” After an hour of whining and scratching at the door, the family gave up and finally let him back in, only to watch him sheepishly crawl back to his dad and lick his hand—no words. My aunt didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; it was one of the more heartwarming things she had ever witnessed. Howling at the moon in the Jacuzzi was his expression of sheer delight.
We’d often spend late night hours in the Jacuzzi, sharing a six-pack of Pepsi with only occasional conversation. Once in a while, he’d catch me off-guard with his insights and knowledge beyond his 10th grade education. But most often his brilliance was reserved for all things mechanical—cars and trucks. The family joked that he could listen to a passing vehicle and not only tell you the make and model, but the color as well. His passion for cars was evidenced early on; at age 12, he built a Ford Model-T from spare parts he had collected.
Later, he built what was registered as a “light weight dune buggy” because the California DMV didn’t know what else to call it. Nearly four tons of monstrosity scabbed together, yet paradoxically dwarfed by the airplane tires it sat upon. People marveled at the fact that it was a four-wheel-drive vehicle with different sized tires in front and back. He was reluctantly convinced to enter the beast into an off-road show where it stood in stark contrast to the pristine and polished vehicles it was judged against. He won first prize and, in my mind, created the first vehicle which would eventually evolve into today’s monster trucks.
Once while in college, some friends and I trekked to the snow-covered mountains of Southern California. When we piled back into the car late at night, the car didn’t start. Without saying a word, I got out of the car and, much to my friends’ dismay, went back to the cabin leaving the others to tinker with the car. A few minutes later, I returned, went under the hood, made a few adjustments, and then asked one of them to turn the key. Without hesitation, the car started. Stunned, they asked, “What did you do?” “I called my dad.”
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As I came up and drew in a much needed breath, I heard someone say, “Are you OK, man?” I looked around at all the unfamiliar faces and realized where I was; at the health club. I snapped back to the present. I had been counting seconds while holding my breath when my mind drifted. I turned to the clock to see that I had been under for three minutes. My dad had been dead for nearly six years.
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