Standing Tall


Let’s go back tonight…let’s reminiscent about days long ago. Its 1968 – yes, I know I seem to be stuck in time, but what the hay. Our country was in a strange funk. Free love, the Tet Offensive, flowers in guns and soldiers standing tall. In 1968 my family lived in Jacksonville, Arkansas. I remember it as being soft fuzzy green, hot days, long warm evenings and fire flies that we used to catch and put into jars that our fathers would put holes in lids with a hammer and nail. Do you remember when your dad would take a long nail put in on the lid of the jar and with one mighty whack of the hammer; the nail would drive straight thru the tough metal.

I was eight years old and time seemed to edge slow even though I was non stop. I remember everything seemed to move fast, even though I complained endlessly how the days dawdled along. When does school get out, when will it be summer. Be Patient, it will be here sooner than you know. School, homework, trips to the dentist, going to bed by 8 pm. And then bang, it was summer and we were free of restrictions, getting up early and running late. Games, tag, Batman reruns, Kool-Aid with lots of sugar, baseball, catfishing, swinging on tree ropes in willow trees, hot dogs, swimming in the lake even though we weren’t supposed to and Dark Shadows at 4 pm religiously Monday through Friday were my favorite past times. We lived on base, Little Rock Air Force Base.

My dad was a career officer in the United States Air Force. He was tall, thin and very cool. He was a pilot, a Major; he was Air Force. He flew large planes….no, not the puny firefighters, but big lumbering massive refueling tankers that would fly endlessly in the clouds for days on end. He was proud to be an officer, he was proud to be in the Air Force even in a time that didn’t necessarily like the military man. He’s still a pilot, an officer, a military man and my Dad. A Marlboro man, he drove a sleek blue mustang and looked quiet dashing in his dress uniforms. My cousin, Stephen, once told me later in life that the thing he best remembers about my dad - was that he could throw a baseball straight up into the air, so high that you couldn’t even see it, and then catch it with his bare hand as the ball plummeted down to earth. Like, I said, cool very cool.

My dad was away a lot. This was Vietnam. Men were off at war, many coming back in flag draped boxes. My family lived a sheltered life in the on-base community of the military, while most of the nation was battling abroad or amongst themselves on Walter Cronkite nightly. We were family, scared young mothers, with bouffant hairdos and rapidly growing children crisscrossing the neighborhood on their bikes and skateboards. Our fathers were constantly gone, away on long TDY’s. (Please don’t ask me what this means…..it’s been over 40 years and I still don’t know what it means….but to an 8 yr old it meant a totally, daring, young man in his flying machine was gone). Blue station wagons, dress whites and folded flags were our enemies. Our houses were soft pastel colors with pristine yards; cartoon like to hide what was really going on. Military wives searched for anything to keep themselves occupied during the long, hot days of summer, vying to see who would have the best summer garden or playing bridge Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays just to pass the minutes away while daring young men flew the skies. To have your dad home was the best, to have your dad home in the summer was better, to have my dad home on the 4th of July was Christmas.

4th of July was filled with laughter, it was a carnival, it was north versus the south, it was a blast. All families would meet down by the lake, a central location amongst the base housing. We lived on the south part of the lake, in the officers division. To the north, the non-coms, non commissioned officers, lived. My family would cross the street, cut through the Chatfield’s backyard and hike down to the lake carrying blankets, large baskets of food, jugs of kool-aid, bottles of Coca-cola and ice tea where lugged over by my whole family. Of course you had to get there early, to mark out your territory. Hamburgers, hot dogs, potatoes salads, green moldy looking Jello concoctions lined the tables. Men were playing fire marshals with barbeques, while children were desperately throwing their fishing lines in the lake in hopes of catching the notoriously big granddaddy of all catfish.

I remember homemade strawberry ice cream. The cream poured carefully into a large tin and then placed in a rickety wooden bucket. Ice and salt were thrown into the bucket. And then…..muscle power. Sorry, this was the 60’s not every kitchen gadget was electrified yet. A group of scrawny 8 year olds would gather round the bucket to crank the rotary arm. Who could last the longest, whose arm fell off, when would the ice cream be done? More salt, no more ice. Go faster, my arm’s sore. You do it, no you do it. Is it done yet? And then the next thing we knew, our superhero dad’s would show up and crank that ice cream maker so fast…..it’s arm would fall off instead. Yummmm……creamy, delicious, tart, strawberry ice cream, so tasty and cold it was perfect.

As dust began to settle, excitement would pass through the throngs of picnickers. Battle lines had been drawn. It was north vs. south, it was them against us. It was battle time, and the fireworks were drawn and ready. Bottle rockets, sparklers, cones of fire, star bursts of red, white and blue. Green fountains of flame. Dad’s taking a long drag on their cigarettes and their embers starting the rockets red blare. Girls were running around with green sparklers, boys sneaking around setting off long, loud strings of firecrackers. Look at that display of colors, no just wait – my dad has yet to fire off his arsenal. Rockets brighter than stars, smoke haze filled skies. We win; we win…..what’s that….look at that flare. He cheated; he cheated…..no look at that flare. The flare guns coming from the military survival kits handed out to all personnel.

And then it was over. K-rations packed back up into baskets, stuffed with empty jugs of tea and kool-aid. Blankets wrapped around sleeping children who now were slung, limp, sleeping over strong shoulders. Young men, rubbing their young wives back as they hiked back up the hills to their homes. A day worth of fun, a day’s worth of battle, it was a memory for an 8 yr old to keep forever.

Recently my dad was diagnosed with cancer. He has cancer of the throat and cancer of the tongue. It was probably from the cigarettes he smoked over 30 years ago. Even though the tumors are small, he has it in two spots making him Stage IV cancer like me. My dad is a boisterous, gregarious, man. My dad, a man who likes to tell war stories, is a man proud of America, no matter what. A soldier, a pilot, he’s my dad. My dad is standing tall even though he knows not what will come.

Let’s all wish him well. As I remember a little 8 year old girl holding her dad’s hand as we hiked up the hill together on a warm summer’s eve.