I had the opportunity to read some of the cards, letters, and e-mails that so many of you were kind enough to write about my father. There were a number of recurring themes: steady, reliable, dependable, patient, a gentlemen, kind, and always had a twinkle in his eye.
I often think about Dad and the times that he lived in. And as we were preparing for today, we've been looking through pictures of him and our family. Something extraordinary jumped out at us. As you look through the pictures of our family, there are a number of ways to tell about when it was taken: What my sisters and I look like, our hairstyles and height, sometimes cars and clothes. One way to try telling the period, that doesn't work, is looking at Dad. Dad looks, and basically was, the same from year to year.
It's been a bit of a family joke for years that, whenever someone spoke of a person's age, we might say, "All ladies are timeless." and manage to avoid a numerical answer. And Dad, being the gentleman that you all mentioned, certainly treated the ladies as such.
There's another thing about timeless-ness, though. In the Bible, especially in parts such as
1 Corinthians 15 it says (depending on the version):
53 For this perishable must put on the imperishable, and this mortal must put on immortality.
So we have some confidence that someday we'll have bodies that won't age or wear out. It's a glimpse of what our heavenly nature may be. And Dad, being the gentleman who really didn't change much from year to year, who was always steady, reliable, dependable, patient, a gentlemen, kind, and always had a twinkle in his eye, had something genuinely heavenly about him.
While he may have been timeless, he lived in such wonderful times. Dad saw-in the advent of international air travel, jet planes with vectored thrust for high maneuverability, flying platforms, airplanes that swing their wings, and even the space shuttle. And he not only saw them, he participated in their development. Not that Dad was one to seek the limelight, but in his quiet way, he was, one of those people, who was comfortable in the background, working on some of the most exciting developments of the 20th century.
A few years ago, I attended one of the Hiller reunions of the employees and families who helped make the Hiller helicopters what they were. Stan Hiller remarked, as he looked over the group and the aircraft at the Hiller Museum, that "your fingerprints are all over this place." Meaning that all of those wonderful people, including Dad, had made a critical contribution to the amazingly creative aircraft that Hiller produced.
I loved visiting with Dad when he was working over at places like NASA Ames and seeing the latest programs and aircraft he worked on. But, for us, Dad was the guy that we turned to, and relied on, in other ways. One evening, not long after I turned 16 and got my driver's license, I managed to hit a deer with a car. For those of you instantly alarmed by that, I'll get right to the point of suspense and tell you that the deer got up and ran off into the woods. Getting to the point of the story, though, the car didn't, and Dad needed to come to the rescue. At some silly late hour, poor Dad came out to where the car was, and we worked out towing it home.
I'd like to tell you that that was an isolated incident, and Dad never needed to come help me out again with something stupid that I did with cars or anything else. But that wouldn't be a true statement. What would be a true statement is that, no matter the inconvenience, or difficulty Dad would come and do what it took when he was needed.
And when things were not in crisis, Dad was wonderful to simply be with. We could talk for hours about the things we enjoyed, usually things that moved, likes boats, cars, motorcycles, helicopters, airplanes, trains, and how they worked, how they were built, and what made them special. I certainly fell in love with all those things through Dad's passion for them, and my son Andrew loves them all too. I'd have to say that one of my own proudest moments was when I got my pilot's license, and Dad was my very first passenger. (And, no, he didn't need to rescue me or tow the airplane home.)
Of course, it wasn't all seriousness, technology, and important things. As kids, Dad taught us deep songs such as "Do your ears hang low?" "Shaving Cream" and something very lyrical about a bullfrog that fit perfectly into Dad's vocal range. That's what I meant by deep songs: Not important - just deep notes. He loved to laugh, and that twinkle in his eye was always close by.
Many things in life change. Not Dad, of course. But now we are learning a new way to experience his steadiness, reliability, patience, and the twinkle in his eye. I confess that I haven't quite got this new way figured out yet. But I'm thankful for all the time we've had.
I love you Dad.
