This is the favorite story about my Dad that I delivered at his funeral in 1998. It seems appropriate to share with you on the Martin Luther King Day. Dad was not a religious man so we, his five sons and 2 daughters, decided to talk our favorite Dad stories at his grave side. I struggled to get through mine and was very disappointed with myself walking away from the service when each of my brothers and sisters asked for a copy of the story. I spent several days writing this for them. This is the first time Ive shared it with a wider audience. I had few outlets for my grief when Dad died in 1998, we his 7 children gathered from the 7 points of the world we had sought out. Dad wasnt religious (but thats a different story) we decided that we would relate our favorite stories about him as the service. Mine involved when I realized the subtly of Dads teaching (he never graduated from high school). I first have to take you back to 1969, the place is on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk some where in the South China Sea. We were on stand down after 2 weeks of constant flight ops and longer days. I was sitting in the shade under the wing of a F4 Phantom leaning against the landing gear. I was reading Mark Twain Following the Equator when Dave Cooper stuck his head under the wing and asked me about some maintenance check that we were scheduled to do. As Coop walked away I realized that David Cooper this man that I have gone bar hopping with around the world, whose back Id cover in many a bar brawl and visa versa, whose home I was always invited to - Dave Cooper, my friend... was black and I was not. Funny I had never really thought about that before ..... then my mind jumped further back to 1957 when I was 10. Dad started bringing home a friend from work (Dad was a maintenance foreman at Formica). Dads friends name was John - John Muthembara. John was the son of a tribal chief in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe today), who by many twists and turns, through England to the US and finally to Cincinnati where he came to the University of Cincinnati and took work at Formica to make ends meet. It was at Formica that Dad and John met, John a member of Dads night shift maintenance crew. John was a curiosity to us all. He was open and answered any question no matter how potentially embarrassing it could be. He came with us on family picnics, on zoo outings everywhere. He tried to teach us how to play soccer and we tried to teach him to play baseball, he stunk and threw like a girl. This was late 50s in Cincinnati Ohio, where ever we went we were stared at but Dad just told us to ignore the stares. We learned, for example, to our horror that the very first lion the John had ever seen was in a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo. Completely shattered our image of the dark continent. He told us of apartheid and how he hoped someday to go home and make a difference. When Johns wife finally caught up with him, she join the outings as well. Through all this I remember my Dad and Mom sitting and watching our interactions and not thinking very much about it. Hell, I was an unprecocious 10-12 year old all American boy of the times. But 12 years later under that Phantom wing clarity crashed in to existence in the vacuum between my ears, Dad was teaching us that race was not a factor when choosing a friend, you look for the person inside. Dad, I decided was a crafty old fart and didnt teach by telling and yelling as I had thought but would arrange these little life lessons and tableaus for his kids and if the truth be known for John Muthembara too. When I came back from NAM I was different, troubled and distant. Dad, a WWII veteran of 50+ missions over Europe as a waist gunner in B17s sensed the dark and troubling times I was going through, he had been through his own version of them. Now, he was there to help his son through them in his own way. One of the things I wanted to talk about was John. But I had a hard time broaching the subject. (other things happened to me over there, many it took years to even face and some I still cannot talk about) but these lessons about race were something I wanted to thank him for. One evening in 1970 I was sitting on the porch steps leaning on my crutches. Dad sat down beside me. I stumbled out the story about the day in the South China Sea under the wing of a Phantom and my friend Dave Cooper and the flash back to John and the family outings and how I thought he was teaching us about how little race meant in forming friendships. Dad kinda looked over his shoulder at me, give a sly little Dad half smile and said...How about a beer I brought two with me That was Dad talk that said yup that was my whole intention and you got it, Im proud of you son have a beer. We sat on the porch sipping beer for the longest time then slowly we started swapping war stories. The light ones first but gradually we got to some of the blackest of the black pit of hell humans shouldnt have to see these things stories. Mom never heard any of these stories from either of us, war does that. Later in the mid 80s he admitted that he had never felt closer to me or prouder of me than that time on that porch in 1970 and I had to admit how special the evening was for me too. For me that is one of those moments when you get a glimpse of the meaning of life, this one like many from my Dad. I still miss him and for me this is the one story that sums up and signifies my Dad, it more than any other of my memories brings my Dad to life standing beside me with that little Dad half-smile of his. It seems only proper that on the MLK day that my thoughts drift toward Dave Cooper, John Muthambara and most of all my Dad who taught his children that race had no place in the definition of friendship.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 21:46:36 +0000
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