Ace of Aces

When I was in the eighth grade, my middle school offered a brief aerospace course in which everyone in my class learned the science behind flight.  Instead of in a normal classroom, we attended class in a narrow trailer behind the school that housed three rows of school desks and several (probably outdated) flight simulators. The class itself was devoted to lectures about draft and diagrams of airplane cockpits, and each of us was working toward the title of Ace of Aces, an honor bestowed upon the student with the highest final average in the class.

The details of this experience are hazy to me now - in fact, I'm not even sure my description of the building is altogether accurate - but I do remember that, during my final flight simulation, I landed my airplane 300 feet underground.  It is a testament to the ineptitude of my entire class that I, along with a several other students in the class, had a subterranean landing and still managed to outperform everyone else in our grade.  Ultimately, the title of Ace of Aces came down to an essay question on the final exam, and, somehow (perhaps through sheer willpower alone), I managed to squeak out a lead.

I was the Ace of Aces.

I've had some success in school over the years, largely due to my nervous nature, but of all my scholastic achievements, this one - Ace of Aces - was the one my dad was most proud of.  I remember the school assembly when I got my award:  we were in the middle school gym, and I was wearing my Blue Ribbon uniform (Blue Ribbons being nerdy honor roll students who painted the signs for football games.  Every Friday, we wore cheerleader-like uniforms, creating an irony that struck me even at the age of 13).  In the picture I have of the event, I'm standing with some administrators, gripping my certificate nervously, my Ace of Aces medal hanging from my neck.  I had just walked across the stage to receive my award, and I remember thinking, despite the sheer terror I felt facing such a large audience, that this trauma was totally worth it to see the smile on my dad's face.  He was the one who took the picture, and, though this may be my memory exaggerating for effect, I think he was crying, just a little.

While any parent would have been proud of their child in this moment, this was a personal victory for my dad, who made a living in the world of aerospace science.  My dad was an aircraft mechanic, a profession that - to me - ranks right up there with surgeons and pharmacists  in that one serious oversight on the job can cause people injury, or even death.   But the people who relied on dad - small companies and private pilots, mostly - never had to worry about any of that stuff.  Dad worked on airplanes for over 35 years, and up to the last week before his death, he was STILL receiving phone calls from people who needed advice about airplane maintenance.  I swear to you, one day at the hospital, my stepmother had to sprint down the hallway to stop a long-time friend (and pilot) who was marching towards dad's hospital room with a binder full of what I can only describe as airplane stuff.

As the 1995 Ace of Aces and daughter of an accomplished airplane mechanic, I should know a little bit about airplanes.  But I don't.  I have an awful memory, and despite sharing genes with a man who could disassemble a jet engine and then put it back together piece by piece, I have a complete inability to focus on detail.  Here is everything I know about airplanes: 1) They require frequent inspections, a process that involves taking the airplane apart and checking every part to make sure it works.  2) They require gasoline to fly. The End.

Because of my lack of airplane expertise, this is one post that, I know, will not do my dad justice.  We all have professional and personal lives, and I can only really speak to the personal side of his life with any real expertise. But, despite my lack of insight into the day-to-day workings of his career, dad's job was such a huge part of my childhood that I want to talk about it in the best way I can.

The first thing I want to talk about is how awesome it is when your dad works in an airplane hangar.   Airplane hangars are much, much cooler than any sort of automotive garage you might have seen.  First of all, their location is restricted - you have to drive into the airport, taking the backroads that only Important People know about.  Dad was not a commercial mechanic - he didn't work for American Airlines or anything like that - but the fact that dad's hangars were part of the unknown underbelly (my perception) of the airport made the visits seem very exotic.  But the exoticism doesn't stop there: smelling of grease and gasoline, an airplane hangar is a spectacular space with high ceilings and vast concrete floors (if you can find a stray rolling chair back in the office, you can have a lot of fun). Also, airplane hangars house ACTUAL airplanes.  That's right: airplanes that fly in the air were just parked there, right outside my dad's office, just waiting for me to crawl into them (because private planes are often fancy, they always smelled like new leather to me).   One great sadness I have about dad's death is that Marshall, who currently loves vehicles of all kinds, will never get to experience the joy of walking directly up to an enormous airplane and putting his hand on it.

Being the daughter of an airplane mechanic has other perks, in addition to getting to visit airplane hangars: sometimes, you get free flights!  (This only happened to me twice in life, but it's enough to make me feel important and privileged.)   When I was 15, one of dad's planes was being flown to Orlando, FL, for some sort of scheduled part replacement, and the owner of the plane invited Dad and my brother and me along for the ride.  This was just a few years after my parents' divorce,  so dad jumped at the opportunity, hoping to provide us with a family diversion in Disneyworld.  I remember sitting on the plane during takeoff, thinking, "I hope the part this plane is missing isn't important."  We had a good time in Florida, but I think our return flight was delayed, as I remember sitting in a strange little airport, ready to go home.

The second free flight of my life was just a year or so later.  I had been in touch with an old friend who lived in Arkansas, and I had invited him to my homecoming dance.  He, in turn, convinced one of his friends to come down for the dance, too, so it soon became clear that these teenage boys needed transportation. You may or may not know this, but after an airplane has received maintenance, a pilot may take the plane out for a test flight, I guess to make sure it doesn't spontaneously explode in the sky while carrying important people or cargo.  Somehow, my dad managed to talk his pilot friends into test flying the plane to Arkansas. Again, I felt nervous about the flight.  We were, almost, a bunch of crash test dummies.  "Have faith in your father," I kept reminding myself.  And, of course, we flew to Arkansas and returned to Shreveport safely, with an amazing story to tell.

I know that, over the years, dad experienced many, many free flights, but the only other one that is significant to me occurred shortly after Marshall was born.  My dad is not much of a traveler, but he had made the drive to Fort Worth to visit me and my new family in the hospital.  I so vividly see him standing beside my bed in a denim shirt and navy blue suspenders, holding his grandson, it's almost as if I am there now.  But I digress. A week after Marshall's birth, we moved into a new house (an old house, but one that was new to us).  Dad heard that one of his pilot friends was flying to Dallas, so he hitched a ride on the plane, borrowed a car, and drove out to meet us at our new place, which was still almost completely empty.  That was the only time dad saw my house in Fort Worth - he will never see my house in Amarillo - and I am so grateful to his pilot friend for making it happen.

This entry has gotten much too long, almost to the point of rambling.  But sitting here, typing about him, has created an almost visceral return to my childhood. When I think about dad at work, I think about him in a blue workshirt, his name embroidered above the left pocket, walking toward me through a cavernous airplane hangar.  He is carrying a red rag, and his arms are black to the elbow. He says, "Hi, Sweetie," and hugs me, surrounding me in a cloud of airplane grease. I don't remember anything else about airplanes or how they work - Ace of Aces! What a fraud! - but the smell of airplane grease I will always remember.