A Change of Heart

People ask me how my son handles me going away to fly helicopters. That's the nature of most flying jobs; dads (and sometimes moms) go away to work.

At eleven, Dylan is pretty stoic about me leaving, except during times like hurricane evacutions in the Gulf of Mexico, or annual training, when I'm away for longer stretches than usual. My friend and coworker Todd has a son the same age, and relates that it's pretty much the same with his son.

It's all Dylan has known, after all. When he was a little guy, prior to starting school, I'd get a kick out of how he reacted when I walked through the door after being away: it was like he picked up on whatever conversation we had before I left.

But at the age of seven, it seemed that Dylan really got a grasp of how other families lived. His little friends had their dads home every night. One night, when I reminded him that I'd be leaving the next morning, he burst into tears. It shook me. I held him in my arms like he was three again.
"I don't want you to leave, Daddy."

Oh geez. For the last year, I'd been "Dad" instead of "Daddy." This was serious.

I said, "Dylan, if me going away is really getting to you, I'll find another job."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."

He pondered that for a moment. "So you'd be home every night?"
"Yep. Every night." More pondering.
"Dad, would you still volunteer at my school?"
"Well, probably not. I'd probably be at work. Have you noticed that it's mostly moms who volunteer at school?"
"Yeah. Dad?"
"What, Punkin?"
"Does that mean we couldn't go camping during the summer?"
"We could go camping, but it would mostly be on the weekends."
He frowns. "While more people are there at the lake?"
"Yeah."

He thinks more. "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"If you got a job where you didn't have to leave, does that mean you wouldn't be a helicopter pilot?"
"Well, yeah, I guess that's what it means."
"I couldn't tell my friends my dad is a helicopter pilot anymore?"
"I guess not," I say.

He holds his hands up in a stop right there gesture. "WHOA WHOA WHOA. FORGET IT."

And that was the last time he brought it up. Sometimes, I guess, peer influence can be a blessing.

Shoulder Time

A couple of nights ago, Dylan and I sat next to each other on the sofa. He was feeling rotten, suffering through flu-like symptoms. He leaned against my shoulder as we watched TV, and a realization washed over me: it had been at least a year since he'd leaned up against me like that. He was sick then, too.

Don't get me wrong. I'm openly affectionate toward Dylan, and he doesn't seem to mind. We hug a lot. When I drop him off at his school in the morning, I still kiss him on the head, and he doesn't seem too embarrassed.

Yet?

He's eleven now, and getting more independent, and the little boy in him is receding into the background, little by little. I thought about that as we sat there on the sofa.

Sometimes, he gets exasperated with me, and informs me that I still treat him like a little kid. I explain to him that, to me, it doesn't seem so long ago that he was so small I feared breaking him while picking him up.

One day, when he was three, we came back from town. I extracted him out of his car seat, held him close, and kissed his head.
"Thank you, Daddy. Will you still kiss me when I'm thirteen?"

I was taken aback, and I laughed a surprised laugh. Where the heck did a three year-old come up with such a question?

"Well of course, Punkin'. But you know, sometimes by the time boys are thirteen, they don't want to be kissed by their daddies anymore. I might have to chase you down and tackle you just to kiss your head."
He giggled. "That sounds like fun."

It also sounds like a good motivator to stay in shape.

No Thanks, E.T.

     Funny, I don't think of myself as a guy steeped in vanity, but a dream I had a couple of nights ago has me questioning how well I know myself.

     I was day hiking in the Trinity Alps when I came across a spaceship. A little purple man--not green, purple--invited me inside. He cut right to the chase.

     "We have a mission for you."

     "Me?"

     "Yes, you."

     Hm.

     "We have devised a verbal campaign to save earthlings from destroying themselves and their planet, and we have chosen you to deliver our messages."

     "Well, okay. But, y'know, I have a family, and I have a job." Maybe my family and my job didn't mean anything to those little purple bastards, but they would know in no uncertain terms that they were important to me.

     "You would deliver our messages over the internet. All we ask is one hour per week."

     "That sounds workable," I said. "Anything else about this assignment I should know?"

     They looked at each other. I knew those little purple bastards were hiding something.

     "Well, your messages will be in video form. Since image is important to earth people, we propose to modify your appearance somewhat."

     "How so?"

     "We wish to restore the dormant hair follicles on your cranium. You will no longer be in the throes of male pattern baldness."

     "Cool," I said.

     "And, you must grow your hair long, and wear it in dreadlocks. You should never be heard listening to any music save that of Bob Marley, and you should be seen eating quinoa with every meal."

     "Dreadlocks?"

     "Yes, dreadlocks."

     "Will my hair still be gray?"

     "Yes. The gray will lend credibility."

     I weighed the pros and cons of their offer for a few moments. "So really, just an hour per week?"

     "Yes. One hour per week."

     "Okay. Sign me up."

     Rhonda was able to stay home the next morning. I told her and Dylan about the dream.

     "DREADLOCKS?" they asked in unison. Family stereo.

     "Yep, dreadlocks. I'd be one stylin' middle aged dude."

     "Dad?"

     "Yeah, Dyl?"

     "If that ever happens for real, and they say you have to wear dreadlocks, please turn them down."

     "That kind of stings your old man, Dyl."

     "Dad, the truth hurts. You should never be seen in public wearing dreadlocks."

     Just wait until Halloween. 

America's Braveheart?

     "Young 'giant' Peter Francisco was the most renowned common soldier in the Continental Army — and possibly in the entire history of the U.S. Army." That's from an article in Military History magazine.
     He was a giant of a man for the time, standing six feet six inches, and weighing 260 pounds. In 1777, he joined the 10th Virginia Regiment at the age of sixteen, and over the next three years, his battlefield prowess gained him a near-mythical status among fellow soldiers. He carried a five-foot sword made under the authorization of General George Washington. Washington himself said that the American Revolution might well have been lost without the benefit of Francisco in key battles.
     Why isn't he better known? Well, one reason might be that he was not a member of the landed gentry. In fact, his origins are a bit of a mystery. Legend says that that he was brought to North America at the age of five. He was found sitting on a dock in what's now Hopewell, Virginia, wearing expensive clothing. He spoke only Portuguese. He was taken in by an uncle of Patrick Henry, Anthony Winston, and lived with and was tutored by the family until the start of the American Revolution.
     After the war, he married and had two children. He lost his wife in 1790, but later remarried and had four more children.
     He was probably born in 1760, and died in 1831. Perhaps his name will one day gain the recognition warranted by his superhuman feats.
     After all, without Peter Francisco, we might have grown up with fish and chips instead of hamburgers.