My dad used to be a pilot. I say "used to be" rather tentatively, because I am unsure if anyone ever ceases to be a pilot even after their license's expire. It seems to be some kind of infection that gets into your bloodstream and that you can never fully shake. I wouldn't really know, not being a pilot myself. Dad got his pilot's license on the day he turned 16. Two years later he was shipping off to Vietnam and learning how to fly helicopters (or, as he likes to call them, REAL airplanes). He earned the Distinguished Flying Cross over there, a fact he neglected to tell any of his family until I was in college. When he came back to the States he flew in the Guard for awhile until he eventually went back to full time service in the Army. That may have been the end of his flying career, but anyone who knows my dad can tell you that he is a man of few loves: he loves his Lord, his family, Nebraska football, and airplanes. Growing up, dad's goal was to ingrain those passions into us as well. Apparently my brother was more susceptible than I: he's an Air Force pilot, father three, foster dad, amazing husband, loves the Lord, all around great guy but a terror to be around whenever the Cornhuskers loose a football game.
My father didn't fail completely with me. I love Jesus. My son saw a red painted wall yesterday and said "Mama! Go Big Red! Football?" I really enjoy flying inside of an airplane. Also, I love me a good air show.
We (obviously) grew up going to air shows. Dad knew every airplane and every statistic about each one. We'd sit in cockpits, walk the flight line, overheat watching every last flight show. We loved it. There's nothing quite like a F-18 or B-2 flyby.
We took Devon to his very first air show a couple weeks ago. I kind of feel like it's my duty to teach my son about Popsie's four loves. I probably shouldn't be surprised by Devon's reaction to the air show:
he hasn't stopped playing with airplanes since. I wonder what we've started.
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