You never know what will arrive in the mail. Here, on the cusp of Memorial Day, arrives a small packet of photographs of my father and of one of the fighters he flew out of England during WWII. The packet comes from a nice aviation enthusiast in Missouri who collects autographs of World War II pilots, and he thought he was writing to my father.
Both of my parents have died in the last year, and I need to compose a note to this fellow to say he’s just too late. This “greatest generation” is vanishing rapidly.
My father was a career Air Force officer who flew continuously from 1942 to 1971, when he retired from the Air Force, and he continued to take the controls on occasion when flying with his buddies. I inherited a love of aviation from him, but not his skill at balancing checkbooks.
I miss my parents tremendously. I’ll be visiting them at Punchbowl this week.
Here’s a little essay on our last trip together.