My Irishman

The man of my life.

The man who loved me like no other, silently and keenly.

He believed in me when no other soul seemed to care.

He taught me how to work. Irish work ethic never failed him….large strong, worn hands. Hands that deftly knew how to build something out of nothing. “If you’re going to do something, do it right.” This was his wisdom to me from six years old on.

This Irishman would sit on his back porch and watch patiently as I ran circles in his back field wearing my new Adidas sneakers…running and running till I wanted to drop. “I’m gonna be in the Olympics someday!”, I would yell to him. He would smile and yell back, ”Good! Keep running then!”. He would sit for what seemed like forever as I ran chasing my childish dream never letting me think it wasn’t possible.

He was a mysterious Irishman at times. A dark night driving through town, stopping on the 4th Avenue bridge - he looked both ways for traffic and when no one was in sight he tossed a sawed-off shotgun into the bay. A very mysterious man.

This man liked adventure and the childhood dream of treasure. This man took an old MJB coffee can, filled it with very old silver coins, made me crawl under the house with him when I was 8 years old and said, ”Okay, now dig a hole and bury the coins. On your 13th birthday we’ll dig them up”. This man made me feel as if adventure was a God given right and one should expect it.

This man with the straight, strong, Irish nose sat up all night with me as I watched Neil Armstrong take his first step on the moon. I was 11 years old and no one in my family cared about watching what I had dreamed of doing - walking on the moon - except this Irishman. We sat in silence, both bursting inside with emotion as we witnessed the history happening before us.

This is the man who two weeks later said, ”I’ll help you build a replica of the lunar module only if we use what materials are already in the shop". My Irishman was a creator. So, we built my module. A ten-foot high replica of what had landed on the moon that hot summer night in July of 1969. I, more than anything in the world, wanted to be an astronaut. That Irishman told me, “You can.”

This Irishman - MY Irishman - loved me and was a father to me. He gave to me what no one else in my life had ever given to me - belief in self, belief in dreams and belief in living a life void of fear.

This is for MY Irishman, who I just recently realized I look like. After 40 years of wondering who it is I take after in my family I can now see it is MY Irishman. The eyes, the nose, the cheekbones - I do have roots and I do belong to a family. An Irish Family.

Happy St. Patricks Day, Grandpa. I love and need you, still.

Those Deafening Defining Life Moments

How did I get here? No really, how did I get here?

Every life has a series of defining moments. Some of those defining moments small, some big. A series of defining moments, they say, is how you get anywhere. It’s the way a life is forged, sculpted, melded into who you are at this very moment in time…the present. I never really understood that saying. In fact I’ve hated that saying for some reason, but I think it's probaly true. As I stand here right this second I am the sum of all the moments of my entire life. The silly moments, the sad moments, the happy moments, the painful moments, the big and small defining moments. I guess you could say all moments are defining. But you know …. that’s just not as fun to think about. I like to think of those big monster, undeniable moments that there is no doubt that THIS IS A DEFINING MOMENT numbskull!! Some defining moments don’t present themselves until many years after the fact when they say, “hey kid, remember this. Yes, this was THE defining moment in your life.” The mammoth, the apex, the zenith of all other moments – check it out. No really, don’t be afraid. It’s been 45 years - you can do it!

This seems like a no brainer to most, but when you’re in the murky midst of your own life you sometimes just don’t realize those BIG moments that occur to change the entire course of your life. Either because you just don’t want to acknowledge that moment … that son-of-a-bitch sucky moment … or …well …you just think … yeah … that happened … doesn’t that just happen to everybody … it’s no big deal. I’m not a whiner ya know. Just for the record … it’s kinda cool to be able to put a check in the box of my biggest defining moment. Okay done now ... acknowledged … taken under advisement.

My wingdinger moment happened when my Pop shot and killed himself with a .22 caliber rifle early one cold October morning in 1964. Poor Pop … didn’t get a clean shot on himself so it took him two shots to successfully carry out this defining moment. Big defining moment - no brainer - right? Yeah, intellectually, but the deeper emotional, spiritual understanding of it - nope. Not til years … years later.

In flying there is something called a VOR which is short for VHF Omni-directional Radio Range . It’s a navigational aid that pilot’s use to travel the skies. My home airport has one. When I would start out on a trip the VOR guides me to all other destinations. Doesn’t matter what direction I go … east, west, north, south. This puppy is the point from whence I begin a journey and it is the point that I will always return to ... kind of like that #1 top life defining moment. My Dad popping himself off (I don’t mean to be glib in words here, but it’s okay, I’ve had lots of therapy. I figure I’ve earned the right to be as tragic or as glib as I want about this defining moment. I love ya Pop) ... my Dad popping himself off was probably a 10 on the scale of “moments that define you”. My biggest defining moment took only a millisecond to occur. He pulled the trigger and BAM! my life took an entirely new direction.

It’s bizarre to think about that. In an instant, a freakin’ instant of a millisecond – the time it takes for a bullet to travel out of the chamber, down the barrel, exit and then enter my Pops chest … an ENTIRE new life was chosen for me, by my Pop. I guess I should admire him for taking some kind of action to end his emotional pain and suffering. Tho’ I think it was a pretty lame action to take. But, I do understand and forgive him for it … mostly….let’s say I forgive him 92.5%. The other 7.5% is pretty much, “are you kiddin’ me! What the hell were you thinking?!? Man up you weenie!”. I am getting closer and closer to 100% tho' - as we speak.

Okay, so the lingering question still exists. How in the hell did I get here? Simple, I guess. I got here by living through all my defining moments. I woke up this morning thinking about another one of those moments. I just decided to get the big honkin’ one (Pop & his .22) out of the way first.

Have you ever flown a plane? I have. As a kid I dreamed of being a NASA Astronaut. Space was it, man. I loved everything about it. The planets, the stars the possibilities seemed endless. Oh and then there were the “ships” (Mercury, Gemini, Apollo), the gear, the helmets, the spacesuits – I loved it all. If I couldn’t be an astronaut then I knew someday I had to be an explorer of the skies. Watching Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walk on the moon in ’69 was also a defining moment. A very big defining moment for me. It changed my entire mindset … even at the age of 11. Sitting there, watching them walk on the moon! That meant I could do and be anything I wanted! But that’s not the moment I want to talk about now. This one has to do with later in life - finally following through on my dream of flight. I did it about 12 years ago. Learned to fly.

As these moments tend to go, I had no idea at the time it was a defining moment. I fell hard, big-time, head over heels in love with flying. Have you ever done something in your life where you finally feel like you are “home”. Everything about what you are doing “fits” the you that is truly you? I was ME when I was flying. I love to learn and do. And there is so much to learn and do when you fly. I fell in love with my plane … not just one but many. Any plane I get to touch and fly becomes “my” plane. It sounds corny and weird, but it’s true - the relationship between a flyer and her plane is oh so personal. And trust me … the plane … yes, she is just a machine, but really she’s so much more. She’s your intimate partner in the sky. You have to intuit her, watch her, play a game of give and take and then when it’s time to land … the two of you MUST come together in unison if either of you want to live to fly another day.

When I was flying I felt as though God was giving me the chance to experience the “me” that fit’s so perfectly in this world. I belonged in my skin … at last – holding the yoke with my left hand and working the panel with my right. Airspeed, power, altitude, attitude, drag, thrust all working against each other….and I was the one who could make them work “with” each other. The outcome was - the miracle of flight. I was me. This is what I do, I fly. I was in love with every aspect of it. I belonged. Becoming and being a pilot was certainly a defining moment, but learning that I would probably never fly again … was a much bigger defining moment.

So, how did I get here? Twelve years later. You’d think I’d know, but … fuck if I know. I’m lazy. I’d rather not think about these things, but I do.

Ya know, a flyer who doesn’t fly is truly a pathetic soul. I mean those flyers who want to keep flying, but can’t – for whatever reason. Go watch any of those old 1930’s-40’s movies with Spencer Tracy or Clark Gable. Watch the moment they’re told they’re grounded, no matter how hard they try to hide it, pure panic sets in. They know, in that all so monumental millisecond, that they’re screwed. It’s not just in the movies either. In real life, pure and simple, you feel so utterly and totally screwed. You might as well give me a gun so I can end it all. (sorry, Pop, no pun intended).

There is a reason pilots can’t really describe why they fly. It can’t be put into words very easily. I, personally, can’t describe it … really. I’ve never met a pilot who could truly convey the depth and truth of why they fly. All they know is that without it they are not themselves. Flying is like landing on the moon. There is nothing out there that can compare. You either fly or you don’t. It can’t be substituted with anything. And right now … I don’t fly … and the day that I realized I wasn’t going to fly anymore - well that was one of those big sucky, crappy – eating away at you for years kind of a defining moment. And trust me, it takes BIG bites.

Do you know how many planes fly overhead during one day? Hundreds - thousands. There is this funny little thing that pilots do. By the way, you are still considered a pilot even if you don’t fly. Once you’re a certified pilot … always a pilot…maybe just not a flying pilot. So the funny thing pilots do is no matter what’s going on – if they’re in a conversation, driving a car, doing whatever … a pilot HAS to look up at a plane as it flies overhead. We just can’t resist - because honestly … that is where we’d rather be at that moment – any moment. The bumper sticker is true, we’d rather be flying.

For years I was unable to look up at any plane that I heard flying overhead. My natural instinct was to look, but I forced myself not to. It was just too painful. I wasn’t going to let myself go there. It’d be like looking at an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend that you were still madly in love with as they walked down the street with their new love interest. A knife to the heart … ouch! I see you, but can’t have you.

One day I was outside, working on an old vintage travel trailer I was restoring. In the distance I heard the distinct sound of a radial Merlin airplane engine. I knew it was a P-51 Mustang heading my way, the quintessential fighter plane of WWII … one of my favorites. I thought about it. I hesitated, and then I looked. I just couldn’t help myself. I watched and listened to it swoop by and head off to the west. My heart opened. I was in love again … just for a moment and then ….. I cried. Happiness and grief make strange bedfellows. I’ve gotten myself back to the point now where I will still let myself bolt out of my computer chair, scramble out the front door, run out on the lawn and look overhead to watch a C-17, Mustang, or any other aircraft fly by. The happiness now outweighs the sadness. But, the sadness is still there, especially as I watch the plane and pilot fly off toward the horizon. That part still sucks. I hate being left behind.

So, I’m still here – trying to figure out how I got here. But, I guess that might not be the right question anymore. Might be a tad bit healthier to ask ….. “okay…where the hell you gonna go now, kid.” And you know, maybe it’s not all or nothing. Maybe there still is a place for me in aviation. Even if I’m not sitting in that left seat being the Pilot-In-Command, greasing those landings, riding out the turbulence, getting the shit scared out of me when the engine coughs and sputters and I start looking for a field to land in – ah good times. I saw this commercial once … it’s some big ol’ football linebacker talking about his game, “If I can sack a quarterback once, twice, three times in a game … dude, I’d take that over sex any day.” Yep, it made me think of flying.

Three cheers for all those wonderful, exasperating, heartbreaking deafening defining life moments! Where would we be without them? Nowhere.