A day with my father

The Master Sergeant

A reprint:

When I turned 15-years, and seven months old, the Master Sergeant said, “It’s time you learned to drive.” He said it the same way he said, “David, it’s time you learned to swim.”

Terror.

“We’re going out to the Flight Line. You’ll love it, boy. Great place to learn how to drive. Wide open spaces.”

Horror.

“It’s a tarmac, pop. You sure about this?”

No dad has ever heard, “You sure about this?” from his kid and thought, “Good point, kid. Maybe I’m not sure about what I’m doing here. Why, yes, I shall reconsider the wisdom of this choice.”

Instead, 1971’s “Father of the Year” said, “Lighten up, squirt. The airfield is perfect. It’s just a big parking lot. It’s Sunday morning. It’s dead.”

As he drove us there, I asked him how he learned to drive.

“Taught myself. When I was 14, I stole a Model T.”

Throughout his life I asked my father for cash, for loans, for signatures, forgiveness, the keys to car, help with my education and advice about the plumbing. My greatest regret? I didn’t ask him for more stories.

“It was stupid. Drove it off a country bridge and hitchhiked home. Did I tell you about the time I stole money from the poor box to take the ferry out to Potter’s Field to visit your grandfather’s grave? I missed the ferry back and spent the entire night on the cemetery island.”

“Many times, pop. The best scary bedtime story ever.” We had arrived. It was time to get out and switch seats. I slid into the driver’s seat of his pride, a sun-bleached 1954 Ford Falcon that he kept running with prayer, wires, duct tape and spit. “Why can’t I learn to drive in our neighborhood like everybody else?”

He pointed to the flat empty horizon with his lit Marlboro. “When I taught your sister to drive our old Pontiac ended up in the flowerpots on Mr. Goldberg’s front porch. I’m not going through that again. Head over to that air raid siren. And don’t hit it.”

I crept along wondering when our incursion would be discovered. He flicked an ash out his window. “Floor it, Buck Rogers. You can go faster than 15-miles an hour.”

I’m flying an ancient rattle trap and Chuck Yeager is my copilot. He turned the half-melted plastic leaning Jesus on his dashboard around so He could lean, “into our headwinds.”

“This isn’t an X-15 I’m driving here. Can I change the music?”

“No. Percy Faith calms my nerves. Just drive. Hands at 9 and 3. Check your rear view mirror.”

I did. “Hey, pop, there’s a blue pick-up truck behind us that looks very official. And its lights are flashing.”

The Master Sergeant looked behind us. “Dammit!” I hit the brakes and skidded. The Military Police stopped behind us and an armed soldier approached our vehicle. The Greatest Generation gave me his best serious Eisenhower look. “No jokes this time. I got this.”

Good call. Years later I’m glad I didn’t confess we were sent by Boris and Natasha to photograph military installations.

The smooth-talking Master Sergeant got us home in time for the Ed Sullivan show. He bragged about the incident every time he had a cold beer in his hand. “Should have seen the MP’s face when he found out I was an NCO. And you should have seen Dave. I thought sure he was going to wet his pants.”

Lesson: Better to try something daring and absurd, and apologize afterwards, than to have never tried.

I was tasked with sorting his possessions after we buried him. We sold his cars, sis got his flag, and I got his tools, the very tools he used to keep our hapless junkers, beaters and rattle traps running through countless summer road trips and graduations.

I spent a lot of my childhood in our carport handing him those tools as he tinkered. In return, he gave me tools for living:

“Takes a dollar to learn a dollar. All the best junkyards are south of 22nd Street. Any jackass can kick down a barn. Takes a man to build one. Jackass is an acceptable curse word.”

Sorting the last of his possessions I discovered Dad’s most precious treasures in the top drawer of his bureau: his spare shoelaces, his toenail clipper, his keys to forgotten locks, pictures of mom, old credit cards, war medals, too many old reader’s eyeglasses, and our ancient baby teeth wrapped in a very old handkerchief. Next to the baby teeth I found every misspelled handmade Father’s Day card he had ever gotten from us, neatly stacked. “Best Dad Ever.” “Thanks, Dad. You’re one In A Million.”