The Shocking Stocking Caper

We had recently moved into an old, rambling Arizona adobe house with soaring ceilings and broad expanses of creaky oak floors. To the nine-year-old me, it was a mansion sitting on a quarter-acre of three buildings with plenty of room for exploration and fanciful excursions. On this very early and still-dark Christmas morn, the interior was an obstacle course for a special mission.

I wanted chocolate, and I just knew a delectable portion awaited me in the stocking hanging from the fireplace mantle. It was just past three o’clock, and I had stayed awake waiting upon my parents’ snoring in the next room. To reach the living room, I had to creep down the hall past my older brothers’ domain, through the kitchen and into the dining room. This was directly adjacent to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, so I paused to make sure the snoring continued. Satisfied, my first step happened onto the creakiest floorboard in the house. It sounded like a bad note from a French horn, much louder than expected. Frozen, I heard a snorting lapse in the snoring. Mom grumbled something. Her hearing was so sharp after giving birth to four boys she could hear a mouse fart two houses away. Luckily, Dad started snoring again and Mom went quiet. I was free to continue.

Testing each step, I found the carpet in the living room and made for the fireplace. It was so dark I could barely see the outlines of furniture. “Ouch!” I whispered as a toe found Mom’s steel ashtray. “Oomph!” as my tummy ran into Dad’s music stand. Finally, I made contact with the hearth. One, two, three stockings I felt. Excitedly, I grasped mine. It was full of unseen wonders. Curious to know what all lay inside, I stuck to the mission, feeling around until a likely suspect came to my grasp. It had to be chocolate, I just knew it. Although my eyes had somewhat adjusted to the pitch blackness, I still couldn’t read the label. No matter; it was time to taste my prize.

Eagerly biting into the first piece that emerged, my mouth was assaulted with a bitter, waxy texture which bore no resemblance to the expected creamy goodness. It was, instead, one crayon out of a box of 64. I spit the remains into the smoldering embers of our Christmas Eve fire and shoved the offensive cylinder back into box and the stocking from which it came. Disgusted, I gave up the mission. It wasn’t worth getting busted, and I feared the punishment which would surely follow parental discovery of my crime.
Still spitting Crayola remnants, I retraced my steps back to bed and pulled the covers over my head in resignation. Having a teenaged oldest brother, I was doomed to be kept away from the gift jackpot until at least 9:00 a.m. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep after a while.

I bounced into Mom and Dad’s bed promptly at seven. While largely annoyed being awakened so early on a holiday, they chuckled at my eagerness. My little brother Dan joined us and they kept us in bed with them a while, teasing and shushing me while hoping we’d fall asleep again. Some early sunlight crept into the room and Mom looked at me, seemingly puzzled.

“Is your mouth bleeding, Patrick?” she asked.

I wiped a hand across my lips and a leftover piece of crayon joined the red smear on my fingertips. Ruh roh.

“Um, no, I don’t think so Mommy,” I said.

Mom frowned, but even then I knew my best chance was to change the subject.

“Come on,” I shouted, “everybody GET UP! It’s Christmas!”

We had breakfast, an agonizingly long prelude to my ultimate goal of finally being able to see what awaited me under that aluminum tree. Eggs, bacon and pancakes helped erase the previous night’s bitter taste from my buds. Mom kept glancing at me while we ate, trying to figure out why my mouth was a smeared shade of red, but she didn’t say anything.

Finally, the anticipated moment arrived. I burst away from the table and into the living room to admire all the gifts under the tree. Mom followed behind and started pulling stockings from the mantle. My brothers and I jostled each other to see which packages were for whom. It was a joyful, chaotic scene played in many a living room worldwide that 1969 Christmas. I was the last to receive my stocking, and I looked innocently into Mom’s eyes as she handed it to me. Her gaze was marked with a smirk, as if she knew.

“Go ahead Patrick,” she said, “look in your stocking.”

Nervously, I started pulling out treasures. A yo-yo, pencils (what the hell?), candy canes, various candies and one tantalizing chocolate bar. I had been pulling these out around the box of crayons, which I finally had to retrieve to get to the bottom. I quickly laid it aside and dug deeper into the toes to retrieve a bag of marbles. Mom stood above, arms now crossed at the waist. My face must have reddened, because she reached down and picked up the crayon box. I pretended not to notice as she pulled out a somewhat-mangled red waxy cylinder and showed it to Dad. He looked at me and laughed.

“I didn’t know crayons were edible, Patrick,” he said.

“Hmm,” Mom added, “I thought I heard a little critter snooping around last night. How did this one taste? It says it’s ‘Raspberry Red.’ ” She laughed too, and my brothers joined in as they discovered the results of my late-night carousing.

There was no punishment for this crime, only a mild tickling and incessant teasing that morning. My brothers offered me tastes of their presents, but not their chocolate. Nothing more was said, as we were all too busy enjoying our new toys and trying on clothes.

As she tucked me into bed that night, Mom gave me that look. The one that says “Okay, let’s talk.” I glanced at my presents stacked on my dresser: a Spirograph, some books and other toys awaited my attention the next day. It had been a very lucrative holiday for me, despite my attempted stocking heist.

I took the initiative and apologized for my sneaky crime.

Mom chuckled as she gently pinched my cheek. “See? This is what one gets when one tries to outsmart Santa. Hopefully, you learned a lesson. Always look before you bite, because sometimes your food bites back.”

Ever since then, I’ve been patient at Christmas. It pays to actually see what Santa brought, rather than risk getting on his bad side.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

 

Dear Ma

Dear Ma,

Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the day you left this plane. Just as you preferred, no tears, no debilitating Irish black funk. Whenever you came to mind, many times, I remembered this picture of you and Dad. And that, dear Ma, helped me to smile, instead of pouring out the remaining grief. Like the day you died, I carried on with my life. Honoring you through the lessons I didn’t always want to hear, in the voice I so very much wish I could still hear. Sweet, irascible, ornery and determined… Ma, I miss you so.

If not for you wanting a mess of children, grieving through miscarriages, and battling illness each time one of your four sons were born, there would be no Patrick Brian. Had you not ignored the doctors’ prognoses and willed me to walk, I likely would have died decades ago. You could not abandon me to an institution as they told you to. Retarded, the  doctors said. Never walk or talk, they added solemnly. And you to them: Bullshit.

For two-and-a-half years you studied effects of brain injuries, tried innovative exercises, broke new ground with each tiny bit of improvement. You willed my muscles to work. When I finally did walk, you rejoiced but never let me stop improving. As I grew, you constantly challenged me to excel. My first feeble attempts at writing you heartily praised and encouraged me to continue. Introducing me to classic authors, I became excited by the written word and aspired to be one myself someday. When I ran on the cross country team, you smiled and cheered even when I came in nearer the back of the pack than the front.

Because it must have been so traumatic, you didn’t tell me about my first two years being such a struggle until I was an adult. You refused to allow me to use my slow start as an excuse. There was nothing I couldn’t do, you said, if I truly wanted it. Gently coaxing yet always pushing, being tough when you had to, while calmly soothing my early life’s tragedies. Rewarding achievement and ignoring failure, your guidance led me toward an ability to excel. I realize now, my achievements were wonderful victories for you.

Yes, we argued as mothers and sons sometimes will. Some things you said and did hurt me, but surely my actions weren’t always perfect either. Your refusal to accept my beloved Stacey was painful beyond description. You know now though, how perfect she truly has been, and see the enduring love we have nurtured over 23 years.

Your love of roses grew within me. Your ashes were scattered (illegally, I’m sure) over a Lincoln in my favorite garden. The wind gusted suddenly as I let you fly, and I inhaled a part of you that afternoon, washed down with an abundance of tears.

How I wish we could talk today about everything we never had a chance to; to see those lovely hands, to kiss that wonderful face I resemble, to hear you laugh again. Surely a billion men wish this ability to turn back the ages and save our mothers, if for just one day.

You once told me, “Never look back, just keep moving forward… one step at a time”. Yet it’s the past which gave me this future. I look back not with longing, but fondness and a gratitude my words could never truly do justice.

Dedicated to the memory of

Patricia Gabrielle Romaine Coomer

December 1, 1926 – February 20, 2006

 

A Not So Festive Train Ride

Originally, I described this incident in an email to a friend. Although he sent it back to me upon request years ago, I lost it somehow. So relying on my memory which is foggy sometimes, here’s the story as I recall.

The train was packed at rush hour in Portland’s downtown shopping district. I was standing in the crowded elbow-to-elbow aisle when somehow, the train’s movement jostled me directly into the ire of a fellow passenger, who was seated next to me.

“You’d better get that thing outta my face,” she yelled at me. I looked around, wondering who had offended her. She pointed at me. “Yeah you, Mr. Big Belly.”

I’m actually a slender fellow, but genetics endowed me with a mid-level protrusion that appears as a basketball under my shirt. I hadn’t felt any contact with that part of my anatomy, so I quickly checked to make sure the barn door was closed. Like any man, I sometimes forget to zip up, and I mortified to think my equipment was peeking out at this woman.

Finding everything okay, I told her I was sorry.

“You sorry all right,” she snorted.

Any decent person, I thought, would have left it there. My apology evidently wasn’t enough. This conversation was being viewed intently by my eight-year-old son Zak, who was separated from me by about seven feet and several other riders. His grandfather kept a hand on him, because I could see the boy’s face beginning to redden. He’s always been a very protective lad, and this woman was picking a fight with his dad.

“Oh yeah,” she continued, “I can see you’re embarrassed. Uh huh. You need to keep that big belly outta my face.”

“Ma’am,” I countered, “I already apologized, even though we never touched.”

“That thing’s still in my face,” she growled.

“Well I’m kinda pinned in. Sorry.”

This still wasn’t enough. She began to berate me, seeming to enjoy my reddening face. By then, Zak had seen enough.

“You leave my Daddy alone, mean old lady!” he shouted at her. Tears of anger stood in his eyes, his jaw was clenched and his fists were balled. He was battle-ready. I made eye contact with my father-in-law, whose grip tightened on my fearless super hero.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up and enjoying herself, “I see your little boy fighting his daddy’s battles, huh? Well you hush up and mind your own business little dude!”

Now, my fellow passengers took notice of the middle-aged bully, who sat in a seat while elderly people stood. Rudeness is rarely ignored in this relaxed city, and our fellow passengers were quickly tiring of her game.

“Hey leave him alone lady,” one piped in. “He said he was sorry, why don’t you just stop?”

“And why don’t you mind your own business, ugly sweater boy?” This woman enjoyed ripping into anyone who dared engage her. A chorus of others objected, but it seemed to fuel her zest.

As she turned to harass me again, Zak ripped from his grandfather’s grasp. He bridged the distance in three steps and would have punched her square in the face, had I not caught him in mid-air.

My poor boy was sobbing with fury. He cursed the woman for attacking his father.

“He’s a nice man you old meanie!” he shouted.

Seeing my sweet son so upset, others on the train began chastising the woman who had started this mess. Rather than have my struggling son duke it out with her, we exited the next stop. As we de-boarded, she was still going at it.

“OOOH, he mad, that little boy! Lookit him go!” She laughed at him and pointed, which only made Zak wrestle even harder. He actually squirmed out of my arms and started back into the train, but I caught him and pulled him back.

Before the train began to move, he raced to the window where she sat and banged his fists against it. I grabbed him and picked him up, turning so he couldn’t see her any more. It took a few minutes to calm him down. I was  touched he felt protective of me, but sad that he was so upset. Holding him tight against me, I reassured him we were okay. Gradually, he calmed down and relaxed in my arms, quietly sobbing into my shoulder.

Later that evening, after the boys were in bed and my wife and I sat relaxing with her parents, I wondered what makes people so combative. We were comfortable, relaxed and festive as we enjoyed the cold December evening. We were blessed to be so happily enjoying the holidays together.

Over the next few days, I pondered what had happened. Perhaps, I thought, my assailant had a rougher life than we could imagine. Maybe someone close to her was abusive. Had she a loved one who died over the holidays? As I remembered her worn clothing, I wondered if she even had a home waiting for her. Suddenly I felt guilty for feeling so angry. While I abhor anyone taunting my children, I’d likely never see her again.

Pride can goad us into feeling entitled to retaliate when attacked. Yet I remembered the lesson of turning the other cheek, rather than returning unto others what is dealt us. One introspective evening a few days later, I prayed for this lady, asking that she find happiness in what seemed to be a tortured soul.

Now I drive a bus and see a wide variety of my fellow citizens every day. Whenever there’s a passenger issue, part of me remembers that incident a decade ago, and I look for peace hidden within the turmoil.

 

 

Dad, My Pilot Hero

Dad often sang in the classrooms of his grandchildren at Christmas time.

As a folk musician in the 1960s, Dad entertained in the coffee houses of Chicago. He dazzled audiences with his classical guitar playing and velvety smooth tenor voice.

His eyes don’t focus as they once did, but the twinkle in them remains bright. Cochlear nerve damage from piloting a small plane for hundreds of hours has silenced the magic of his classical guitar and velvet tenor voice, yet his laugh is strong. Not even the loss of his beloved wife of 52 years has dampened his vow to “have fun every day, no matter what”. Without reservation, I proudly call Dad my only hero.

Nearing his 89th birthday, Dad still amazes me. He could have died several times, but he’s defied it. Gracefully. Life is fickle, but I think he’ll survive well into his 90s.

Born in 1926 on the family farm in LeRoy, Illinois, Dad still owns the bed of his mother’s labor. The first of two children, he grew up during the Great Depression. He learned to play guitar early, and remembers playing folk tunes with older family members. Sometime during his eighth year, he came upon a barnstorming pilot giving rides out of a nearby field, and so began his love affair with airplanes. When Dad was 13, his father died suddenly and the farm became his responsibility. Juggling farm chores with school, he dreamed of someday learning to fly. Farming was not his calling, and at 18 he enlisted in the Army with World War II raging on several fronts. Already a fine musician, he enjoyed a brief stint on saxophone in a military jazz band. The next summer, he joined thousands of soldiers on a somber journey across the Pacific Ocean. He was to serve in the first wave of soldiers to invade Japan, with 100% casualties expected. A war-weary President Harry Truman saved thousands of soldiers’ lives when he ordered the A-bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Dad arrived to find a smoldering, defeated country. While exposure to the radiation is likely the reason he later battled two forms of cancer, the advent of nuclear warfare saved his life.

After the war, studied music at Illinois Wesleyan University in Bloomington, where the young tenor developed his strong, velvety voice into an impressive instrument. He found work in Chicago as a clerk with the Illinois Central Railroad, and was enjoying life as a bachelor. His favorite pastime besides music was fishing for Northern Muskie in the numerous lakes of the north country. One day some friends set him up on a blind date. Patricia Romaine was a tall, willowy brunette with a sharp wit and a quick smile. She fell in love with Dad’s gentle yet determined personality, and he with her beauty, love of the arts, and intelligence. Within a year, they married and began producing a family of four sons. Dad continued his work for the railroad while pursuing his Bachelor’s Degree in Music. When Dad wasn’t performing folk music in Chicago coffee houses, he and Mom raced cars in hill climb events.

When we lived in northern Illinois, summers often found us camping in Wisconsin. Dad enjoyed bathing in lakes. One morning, he noticed a bear cub nearby. Alert to the probability of Mama Bear’s proximity, Dad lit outta there like his tighty-whities were aflame. As he was hoofing it, sure enough, Mama lit out after him. Ahead, he could see an open car door. Legend has it Mama chased him around the car and nearly caught him. Dad had other ideas, and scrambled into the car, landing on the lap of Not-My-Mama before closing the door to the enraged bear. I can only imagine the shock of the lady at having a rather large man in his underwear sitting on her lap, with that bear glaring through the window at them!

Dad as a toddler in the late 1920s on the family farm. He still has this wonderful smile.

In the fall of 1966, doctors grimly warned my parents to move to a warm, dry climate or my older brother Bill would die from asthma. Without reservation, they immediately packed everything they could fit into the biggest U-Haul trailer, stuffed us all into our ’65 Chevy BelAir and left for Arizona. My two older brothers and I shared the back seat with my hamster, while Mom cradled our baby brother Dan in the front seat. We spent Christmas in a motel near St. Louis, Missouri as a blizzard raged outdoors. We arrived in the blissfully bright desert outpost of Phoenix in late December. Mom and Dad both found jobs, and we settled in Tempe. Within six weeks my brother Bill, who had been so desperately ill when we left Illinois that Dad had to carry him to the car, broke his wrist falling as he ran in a race. It was a magical time for our family. Everything was new to us, especially the warm winter weather and the incredibly hot summer days.

In the late 1960s, Phoenix still had stockyards in the outlying areas. When we drove by one on a hot day, the fragrant cow manure would assault our senses, but Dad the old farm boy would breathe in deeply and exclaim “that there smells purtier than roses in springtime!” He also told us that ‘cowboy training’ consisted of sitting in a stockyard all afternoon on a hot summer day without complaining. Any ideas we may have had of becoming cowpokes quickly evaporated.

Bad luck had its way of occasionally tripping Dad. When we moved to Arizona, he secured a job as a mail carrier. The first day of his appointed route greeted him with warm desert sunshine. Always a man who loves exercise, his cheerful demeanor would have endeared him to those on his route. They never had the chance to get to know him though, because on that first fateful day, a dog bit him. Soon after, he became a Vocational Rehabilitation counselor for the State of Arizona.

Our new home also afforded Dad the chance to realize his dream of learning to fly. He took lessons from a crusty old crop-dusting pilot and spent every moment of his spare time practicing his skills. As soon as he earned his pilot’s license, he purchased a 1947 Aeronca Champ tail dragger. He and Mom set to work restoring the plane’s fabric skin, and mechanics soon had the plane air-worthy. Joining the Arizona Civil Air Patrol, Dad flew many hours searching for downed planes. We all enjoyed rides in the plane, and Dad soon became a top-notch pilot.
As the third of four sons, I enjoyed a lot of face-time with Dad. For my eighth birthday, he flew me to Roosevelt Lake in “the Champ”. While our fishing yielded few catches, it was an ideal birthday. We spent the night camped under the wing. I recall Dad telling me stories of his youth, and laying there gazing skyward at the Milky Way. Early the next morning, we enjoyed a quick breakfast, packed our gear and took off for home. The passenger seat was directly behind the pilot’s, so while I couldn’t quite watch Dad’s actions as he flew. Instead, I enjoyed the view below. Many years later, Dad told me that as soon as he had gained cruising altitude, the engine lost power. One of the four cylinders was blown, but he glided the plane safely 50 miles southwest to a perfect landing at Falcon Field. The only thing i noticed was he hadn’t made a final approach. This, he told me, was because he had just enough altitude to glide down into Mesa, but no power to make a standard-approach landing.

Dad and I pose in the cabin in 1972. Sadly, the cabin exists only in my memories of this magical time.

In 1970, Dad transferred from Phoenix to Safford, opening Graham County’s first VR office. Since we had only recently moved to Florence, the folks decided not to uproot the family again. Instead, Dad hauled our small camping trailer to Safford and lived in it during the week, driving home every weekend. Mom soon grew weary of four boys squabbling without Dad to keep us in line. With four years separating me from Bill and six from John, I took to taking out my frustrations on my younger brother. At 10, I missed my father. Luckily for me, he found a cabin for rent, nestled against the Galiuro Wilderness. As I entered sixth grade, it was decided I would move in with Dad and attend Bonita School.

This began my tenure as the only Bonita Elementary student whose father flew him to school. An early Monday wake up call preceded a bumpy ride through some of the roughest air in the state, as we flew over the Galiuro mountains into the Sulphur Springs Valley in our “new” 1950 Cessna 120. This model featured the second seat next to the pilot’s, a vast improvement from the Aeronca Champ’s rear passenger seat. This had great advantages, as I would sometimes be allowed to take over the controls and actually fly the plane! Dad would take over in rough spots, or as we approached “Bonita International Airport”. This  consisted of a small landing strip bordered on two sides by huge cottonwood trees, with power lines bordering the cross strip. Dad would drop low over the trees and cut the power, dropping to a stall down to a smooth landing. I’d jump out and run away from the dusty prop blast to school, a quarter-mile distant. Dad would turn the plane around and take off again, over the western end of the Pinaleno Mountains bound for Safford. After school, I’d bus 20 miles out to the ranch. Dad would drive the 60 miles home from Safford each night, and we’d spend the week together.

It was a blissful experience, easily the happiest time of my childhood. Dad would practice his guitar and singing as I did my homework. Sometimes we’d step outside and listen to the coyotes sing in the near distance, or take an after-dinner hike with one of our neighbors. We’d peer up at the sky and locate satellites or the Big Dipper, and when the moon was full we didn’t need a flashlight. For a boy who adored his father, it was an ideal existence. I even felt a little guilty, because my brothers and mom were a few mountain ranges distant, but I had Dad all to myself.

Dad gently guided me into early adolescence, regaling me with stories of his youth. His quiet strength and patience with this 10-year-old rascal still amazes me. After the first year, we had learned a lot about each other. The small school was fun, and I enjoyed my rough-and-tumble classmates. Encompassing kindergarten through eighth grades, the school had 103 students, so the basketball teams needed every boy available; this afforded me valuable playing time. As the school year ended, I hoped the summer vacation would quickly pass so I could return to our routine.

The cabin in which Dad and I lived at Sunset Valley Ranch, circa 1971.

Our flights were not without challenges. One morning as Dad circled on his final approach before landing, we spied a large Brahma bull lying on the ground, right in the middle of the runway. Shaking his head with rare frustration, Dad came in low and pushed the throttle in, throwing a blast of dust and sand into the bull’s face. While the bull stood up and shook his head angrily, he didn’t budge. Knowing he only had so much fuel to safely fly over the mountains, Dad had only one more chance to move the bull. This time, he dropped the roaring Cessna to within a few feet of the pawing beast, who finally obliged us by running off the runway. Dad quickly climbed and circled for a final attempt at landing.

“When I land,” he shouted to me over the engine’s roar, “you high-tail it for that fence, okay?”

I was nervous, not knowing if I could out-run that angry bull, but I told Dad I’d do it. Sure enough, as the wheels touched down, the bull had his attention on this airborne monster that had disturbed his early morning siesta. When Dad spun the plane around at the end of the runway, I opened the door and jumped out. The bull was 20 yards away. Slamming the door and giving Dad a quick wave, I sprinted for the fence. The bull was unsure which of us to chase, but luckily for Dad he chose me. I made it up and over the fence just as 1,200 pounds of angry bovine slammed into it. Heart pounding with the thrill of victory, I yelled triumphantly at the enraged bull, “Toro too slow!”. I waved up at Dad as he soared above us, and he wiggled his wings at me as the bull snorted in disgust.

One bright winter morning found the valley completely socked-in with low clouds. It was a beautiful sight from above. The nighttime snowfall left Mount Graham a glistening white sentinel guarding the puffy cloud tops below. Sunshine glistened off the deep snow on the peak, but Bonita was obscured by an unbroken blanket of clouds. Studying his instruments, Dad descended  for his final approach. His skill, knowledge of the area, and a bit of luck helped him pinpoint the airstrip’s location. As the plane dropped below the low cloud ceiling, we found ourselves precisely on target for the airstrip, and Dad made yet another perfect landing at ‘Bonita International Airport’.

After another year at this wonderful school and magical life at the ranch, my heart sank when Dad transferred to Casa Grande, closer to our home in Florence. My days at Bonita School were over, as were our weekly flights. Yet Dad still found time to take me on occasional short trips, as well as a family trip across the country. Soon after I entered my freshman year at Florence High School, Dad rented a Cessna 182 and flew Mom, my brother Dan and me on a two-week odyssey. We flew from Arizona to Oklahoma, then to Missouri, Illinois, Wisconsin, and around Lake Michigan to Detroit before heading back west. I had hoped to retain the co-pilot seat in front, but Mom insisted I sit in the back with Dan. I poured over pages of homework during the long flights, writing reports of our journey as an English assignment and struggling with math and science. The vistas of fall colors over the Ozarks were dazzling, and the magically winding Mississippi River reminded me of Mark Twain’s adventures. I spent my 14th birthday at my maternal grandparents’ home in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, where Grandma Romaine baked me a cake from scratch in her enormous kitchen. Grandpa had me read a bawdy poem as he and Dad sipped brandy in the library; the story was so funny, I laughed until I cried. We visited family and friends, tasting beer at the Schlitz brewery in Milwaukee, visiting the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village in Detroit, as well as our family homes in Mundelein and LeRoy.

Dad, Bill, Me, John and Dan celebrate Bill’s wedding in Monterrey, Nuevo Leon.

As my teens rushed by, I learned to clean airplanes for spending money. Doc Hyde had a beautiful Cessna which he paid me $50 to wash and wax about once a month. It took an entire day, but that was a great amount which helped pay for my girl-chasing exploits. Dad had upgraded to a Cessna 170 by then, which he occasionally paid me to clean. While I took a couple of flying lessons, I didn’t follow through and obtain my license. It’s something I’ve always regretted.

To this day, I retain a special set of memories only Dad and I are privy to. When he had to undergo open-heart surgery in 1990, Dad’s last flight as a private pilot included my daughter Anna, whom he flew over the city of Tucson. She was a delighted six-year-old who reminded me of a little boy just a few decades earlier. To this day, she fondly recalls “flying with Grampy”.

While his health grounded him by age 65, his love of flying never stalled. He would often eat lunch at airports, watching planes take off and land. He learned how to fly sailplanes, which didn’t require expensive medical certificates, and spent many hours “catching thermals” high above the desert floor. For Christmas a few years ago, my brothers and I pitched in to give him a “flying lesson” with an instructor, who let Dad fly again for over an hour. Even though I was several states away, I could just see the satisfied smile on his face as he guided another aircraft in for one of his patented smooth landings.

To say I “love” my father is a gross understatement. His love of life coupled with having fun each day, has been an inspiration to me as I’ve navigated a challenging adult life. The bravery he and Mom displayed by moving us across country when they knew nobody upon their arrival amazes me still. They ignored doctors who told them my infantile brain injury would render me severely handicapped for life, and I am living testament to their stubborn devotion. My parents taught me to believe in myself, and to have confidence. “If you want something bad enough,” Dad told me one evening at the ranch, “you just need to work hard and you’ll be able to achieve it. Nothing good is ever easy.” Because he and Mom believed in me and were my biggest fans, I learned to be confident and competent. Whenever I was down, they built me up again; in my darkest times they convinced me the sun will always rise and brighten my days no matter the cloud cover. Our flights together showed me a beautiful world awaits those who rise above the clouds and embrace the light.

We’re planning a family reunion for Dad’s 90th birthday next year. He’s too stubborn to miss it, and I suspect Dad wishes he could fly around the country and pick us all up. Of course, I’d have to ride “shotgun”; that’s just how we roll.

Once Upon a Small Desert Town

Ma, Pa and the four Coomer boys, when we moved to Florence in 1969. Note my trusty steed the purple Schwinn, which carried me many miles around town.

As time ticks by and my childhood grows ever distant, I’ve grown to be thankful it was so… magical. It wasn’t obvious at the time, but I took for granted a childhood others might have envied. For some, their younger years terrorize them still.

As I observe “kids these days”, it’s amazing how many use earphones. “Plugged in and tuned out”, my buddy D.B. says. They are blissfully oblivious to their surroundings. Conversations are mostly electronic, and I wonder if youthful imagination is extinct. When I actually see a child riding a bike in the neighborhood it amazes me. If one of them stops to chat whilst I’m weeding the roses, I might faint from the surprise (or from the embarrassment of farting as I rise).

My first day of school, I was understandably nervous. I hadn’t met any other kids because we still lived in Tempe and commuted every day. Mom had a job there, but we hadn’t found a house in town. As I searched for my new classroom, oblivious to the strange kids surrounding me, I worked hard at keeping calm. This was my third school in the three years since we moved to Arizona from Illinois, so I had learned a system of self-preservation in new surroundings. I hummed a favorite tune of my father’s, seeking to soothe myself.

As I neared my destination, my serenity was suddenly shattered when I was slapped, hard, on the back from behind. I turned with fist clenched to behold the biggest kid I’d ever seen besides my oldest brother, and he was laughing at me.

“Hey Boomer!” he bellowed. His buddies laughed. Although he seemed good natured and friendly, I knew from having two older brothers to show no fear. So I turned around and slapped him on the back with all my might. SMACK! I didn’t think about it before I launched my counter-strike, but the other kids gasped as Big John’s back arched and he grimaced in pain.

“The name’s Coomer!” I shouted, and stormed off. Later on the playground during recess, Big John found me. I thought my days as a Florence kid were over the same day they began. But Big John seemed to like the fact I hadn’t cowered when attacked. It was a wise choice to not back down, but I was still a scrawny smartass in need of a bodyguard. We remained close throughout high school, and our friendship continues today.

We moved to Florence when I was an eight-year-old entering fourth grade.

John and I hung out constantly my first two years there. Still kids reaching for double digits in age, we played kid games. Built roads for our Tonka trucks to fly down in my back yard. Climbed to the roof of our “barn” and lobbed grapefruits at aggressive male dogs who came courting our female mama pup Hobo. Snuck peeks at “borrowed” issues of Playboy, not understanding what we read yet pretending to know more than the other. Rolled in the grass with Hobo’s plentiful supply of puppies, laughing as they attacked us with ferocious tongues. We were best buddies, and we had a blast together. Even if I truly pissed him off, John remained a gentle giant. Although he could have crushed me in his huge mitts, he always forgave my trespasses. Those first few years, we were nearly inseparable.

Everyone’s mom thought I was too skinny, so they always fed me. The lunch ladies at school even gave me a ‘job’ in fourth grade so I’d come to the cafeteria every day and find a steaming plate of food waiting for me, before lunch. I didn’t gain weight, but I grew taller and learned how to sweet talk the lunch ladies into even more extra portions.

Back when television consisted of four or five channels, with midday programming limited to soaps, we depended on an active imagination to avoid idleness. My dad loved to hear me say “I’m bored”. It gave him a break, because he sentenced me to hard labor if I dared whine “there’s nothing to do!”. There was no recourse; if I said it, he had an instant cure for boredom: a long list of chores. Thanks to Dad, I learned to pursue creative endeavours and invent adventures.

I wasn’t too proficient on a bicycle when I was nine. Due to some coordination deficiencies, it took me longer than other kids to get the hang of it. One day I sailed out of a grocery parking lot right into the path of a car on Main Street. I hit that car more than it did me; the lady behind the wheel was traveling at a blistering pace of about 4 mph, so I was more scared than hurt. I dusted myself off and lit out of there before she got out of her car.

As my skills improved, my friends and I would ride our bikes miles into the scorching Arizona sun to swim in irrigation pump “pools”, or to pick grapes for a dime a pound in the outlying vineyards. If we were hot, we drank water, usually out of a neighbor’s spigot. Sunscreen wasn’t such a concern back then. Perhaps the ozone layer was yet unbroken. I’d come racing down our street and hit the dirt driveway in front of our house at top speed, then lock up the brakes and slide to a stop. It was a competition to see who could leave the longest skid, and I usually won because I had a “slick” back tire.

Two more of my closest friends, Henry and Roger, decided it would be good biology practice if they performed open-heart surgery on an ailing frog. PETA had yet to come about. As the Frog family’s incompetent attorney, I lost the malpractice lawsuit.

Our lovable town hippie Ronnie stopped to show off his pet “lizard” on Main Street one day. He had it on a leash, following him around. Somebody had to inform him it was a Gila Monster. “Faaaarrrr out, maaaaan,” was his reply.

As teenagers, we traded two wheels for four. My dad had a new VW “Thing” which was an off-road marvel. It would scamper up roads some of the more manly 4×4’s couldn’t. One night, as Henry, Roger and I were out blasting around town one night, we had a few mishaps. First, Henry reached out to adjust the radio antenna; it came off in his hand. Roger was riding on the running board and raising hell as Irishmen are wont to do, when I turned a corner a bit sharply. He put his hand through the plastic window attempting to hold on. Later that night at our desert party spot, the Thing wouldn’t start. Mark’s Gremlin had a bumper that didn’t match up to the Thing’s, so our solution was foolhardy, but it worked. Two of us sat on the Gremlin’s hood with our feet up against the back of the Thing with Roger at the wheel. Any slight deviation in Mark’s steering, and our legs swung dangerously over the edge of his hood. We pushed it a mile into town that way, and it’s a wonder we survived. We parked it in the usual spot and hoped for the best.

Henry and I, at The Bluff one dawn. How we survived our teens is a mystery which best remains unsolved.

The next day, Dad had to drive a different vehicle because his Thing wouldn’t start. I told him to put Coke in it, “because Things go better with Coca Cola”. He wasn’t amused. Feeling guilty later that afternoon, I decided to put in some extra time excavating our corroded gas line in the back yard. As a summer storm “haboobed” toward me, I decided to heave the pick just one more time before seeking shelter. With tiny sand pebbles stinging my skin, I gave that pick a mighty swing. The pick ruptured the water line, shooting a stream 20 feet skyward. Dad came home to my Thing confession PLUS the news he’d now have to replace both water AND gas lines. Poor guy had three martinis that evening.

Our small town of Florence, Arizona was awash with characters, both young and old. I was more attracted to the gray haired, grizzled townies. Their stories were fascinating, and many of them will be found in my novel if I ever get around to finishing it. History always entranced me, and their stories of the “old days” were usually spiced with a bit of overkill. Yet the stories always showed the goodness and kind humor of the folks who populated our town.

There were everyone’s favorite ‘Uncles’: Cecil Cartwright, Louis Hyde, Joe Padilla and Joe Armas, to name a few. Although our names were different, they treated everybody like we were family. Uncle Cecil offered to take me fishing, but we never had the chance. Mama Lucas Leos delighted me with stories of Florence’s “old days” of the 1930s and 40s.

Uncle Louis paid me to mow lawns and paint his several rentals. He was a bachelor who lived in a studio apartment for 30 years, but he spent his extra money on five houses in the area which he rented out. If a kid had a bike, he or she could always count on Louis to fix it for him. Louis also had quite a few folks who depended on his handyman skills to help them as needed; he was usually repaid with a hearty meal. No matter what Ma cooked, Louis would always exclaim, “Pat, that was absolutely the best meal I’ve ever had!”

It was Joe Padilla who took me aside one day as I made my way to Little League tryouts. His face was sad, but he was so kind as he told me I didn’t have the skills to play baseball. Joe Armas would exclaim “Oh God it’s a Coomer, hide the food!” when I came to visit my buddy John Joseph. The two Joes worked in the Maintenance Department at the high school, and always looked the other way when I snuck out of school through their work yard.

There were incidents which blasted my innocence. Having a sheltered life, I never understood child abuse, because the very thought of it was foreign to me. In fact, I never even heard of sexual abuse until a friend revealed her own version of hell when we were 15. It not only shocked me, it popped my cozy white-boy bubble.

I didn’t know about racism because I never had to experience it. Of course there were some dumbass racists in town, but they weren’t the majority. People who uttered racial slurs usually had them rammed down their throats.

Dan, Dad, Me, John, and our visiting Cousins Angie and Crystal in about 1970.

We all got along in Florence, but I didn’t realize life wasn’t the same “out there”. Even so, we did learn early about the “bad boys” on the other side of the fence in Arizona State Prison. Many parents of my classmates were prison guards, and nearly everyone in town owned a gun. When the Tysons broke out in 1977, I was met by a dozen sheriff’s deputies as I drove home from my girlfriend’s house. Very sharply, I was ordered to open my car’s trunk, by a heavily-armed officer. I slept with a loaded 12-gauge shotgun near my bed.

When we moved there in ’69, the town marshal explained what to do when Ma asked how to handle an escaped convict.

“Shoot him, ma’am,” the marshal said. “If he ain’t in your house, drag him in and shoot him again, just for good measure. No questions asked. Save the state a lot of money.”

That wouldn’t work in today’s world. Nowadays, Ma would have been tried for murder.

It was a different world in the 1960s and 70s in Florence, Arizona. I guess it was everywhere back then, but Florence was a great place to be a kid. I’m sure it still has a lot of the same charm, but I cherish the people who made my time there so… magical.