TV Dads and Our Fathers

The 1950s were great years for TV dads. If you liked them earnest but clueless you probably watched Ozzie Nelson on the “Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” For those who preferred a more autocratic approach there was Jim Anderson on “Father Knows Best.” TV consoles back then were bigger, screens were smaller, and channel changing was simpler. Dads watching at home just grunted “Channel Seven,” and their kids jumped right up and changed the channel if they knew what was good for them.

Isn’t it ironic that now, our children are the only ones who understand how to use the remote control?

Sitcoms in the 50’s portrayed family life from an adult’s perspective until two writers named Joe Connelly and Bob Mosher came along. Joe and Bob had a crazy notion that children should not only be seen AND heard, but actually listened to. The father of six kids, Connelly chose two of his own boys as the inspiration for the iconic TV sons we all know today as Wally and Beaver. The Cleaver boys needed someone to “lay down the law,” so Joe and Bob dreamed up Ward, the TV dad all Babyboomer fathers are measured against, and June, who set Women’s Lib back a few years by vacuuming their house in an elegant dress and high heels.

Ward always gave his sons simple rules to keep them out of trouble, but in almost every episode his boys disobeyed him-- usually with catastrophic results. Often the boys were tempted into waywardness by Eddie Haskell, the serpent in the Middle Class Garden of Eden known as Mayfield. But no matter how badly his children screwed up, Ward always loved them, patiently reminding his sons again and again that the rules he laid down were for their own good.

Leave it to Beaver was less a TV show than an ongoing morality play. Themes included obey your parents, tell the truth, and treat others with respect. While nobody ever accused Joe or Bob of plagiarism, they clearly weren’t above using a commandment or two for inspiration. (If thou MUST steal, steal from the best).

TV families have changed a lot since the days of the Beave. The black and white ethics of Mayfield have been replaced by the garish cynicism of Springfield, home of the dysfunctional Simpson family and their oafish father, Homer. Even now, several U.S. cities named Springfield are shamelessly competing to be declared the “real” Springfield, hoping to win a special premiere of the upcoming Simpsons movie and lay claim to a civic legacy of pollution, bad schools and nuclear meltdowns. At the risk of sounding like a Ned Flanders, Ward’s fatherly advice was clearly superior to Homer’s, whose less-offensive quotes include: “Well, it’s 1:00 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids!” and “You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.” D’oh!

Of course the real world is neither black and white, nor predominantly yellow. Real dads are often not as good as the best TV dads, but mostly we’re better than the worst. We blow our stacks too frequently, and many times we lecture when we should listen, but we try to be encouraging and we even say we’re sorry when we’re wrong-- although that rarely happens. While our quality time usually occurs at a more reasonable hour than 1:00 a.m., it never lasts as long as it should, and most of us eat too many donuts. Still, as fathers, we all hope we’re more like Ward Cleaver than Homer Simpson, and only a fool would prefer a son like Bart over The Beave.

In a classic “Leave it to Beaver episode” (Hey, they ALL were classics) Beaver was assigned to write about the most interesting character he’d ever known. He chose his dad, but since his first draft lacked excitement, Wally helped punch it up:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He was born at the mouth of the Amazon, which is a river, and when he was a baby, he was stolen out of his crib by a crocodile, and in the nick of time, he was saved by a friendly headhunter with a blow gun. During the war, he was a secret general, where he had many interesting experiences. Now he has a job in an office, but he really works for the FBI. On Sundays, he goes to the beach and saves a lot of people from drowning.

Of course, by the end of the show Beaver re-writes his assignment, and Ward reads it aloud as the “Leave it to Beaver” string quartet plays and everyone gets all verklempt:

“The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He does not have an interesting job; he just works hard, and takes care of the rest of us…” The paper continues in a similar vein and everyone chokes up accordingly. So in the spirit of Ward and his son the Beaver, here’s my most interesting person:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. John Kerr. He does not have a job anymore on account of he is a retired teacher who taught thousands of kids how to make real stuff like airplanes you can actually fly in and even how to make telescopes. Then he became a vice-principal and suspended a bunch of kids so he could make more money for our family. Only now do I understand that sometimes fathers have to do stuff they’d rather not do so their families can be more comfortable.

Once, when my dad didn’t know I was in his shop he used several words I’d never heard before. When I tried them out myself, he gave me a really good lecture on profanity which came in handy later, when I became a father and my daughter Christa asked me one day “Dad, what the bleep are you doing?”

When I was sick on my eighth birthday my dad stopped on his way home from work and bought me a hockey game with little metal players on rods and a ball-bearing puck. He helped me set it up and played several rounds with me even though he didn’t like hockey. Then he told me I had a fever and should go back to bed.

In the ninth grade when I was taking metal shop from my dad’s colleague Mr. Scanlon and there were too many kids in our class for me to practice welding, so my dad spent an entire day teaching me how to weld. (We had an arc welder in our garage; you think your COMED bill is high?) Mr. Scanlon took one look at my welds and asked if my dad had done them. I said “No sir, that’s my work.” He nodded and gave me an “A.” Only later did I realize Mr. Scanlon was grading three different things: The skill of my father as an instructor, my talent as a welder, and my integrity.

Later in life I was lucky enough to have some professional mentors and other swell guys come along who could be called father figures. My own dad’s a fine teacher, but he knew he couldn’t teach me everything I needed to know.

I’m grateful that my stepsons have grown to love me. While I’ve never taught them how to weld, I still will if they want me to and we can afford the electricity. I see at least a few of my good traits in Alex and Dave and none of my faults and no “real” father could ask for anything more. I hope and pray today that everyone honors not only their own dads, but all good men who’ve devoted themselves to helping children find their way in the journey of life.

Writing this has reminded me how much I hope Christa, Alex and Dave feel the same way about me that I feel about my dad. Everything I’ve done right as a father I owe to John Kerr… and everything I’ve screwed up I blame on Homer Simpson.

The End

So Long, Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright would never have lasted in today’s world. By now he would have broken his T-square over the head of some building department official and retired to milk cows in Wisconsin or to pound sand in Arizona since architecture today is so very frustrating.

One of my clients has a “quick serve” restaurant. As part of a proposed remodel he wants to relocate his drive-thru menu board to face away from an adjacent residential neighborhood. While sound transmission isn’t my usual area of expertise (I’m an architect, Jim, not an acoustical engineer) I can tell you that pointing a drive-thru speaker AWAY from ax-grinding homeowners will probably make them happier.

With this faultless logic I confidently presented our variance request in a recent planning commission hearing and promptly ran into a buzz-saw of complaints about my client’s deficiencies as both a human being and a donut seller.

Construction projects today can’t commence without several acts of submission and contrition. First, you must notify everyone surrounding your site of your folly. Just because you own a building and pay taxes on it doesn’t mean your neighbors shouldn’t be given every opportunity to tell you what color they think you should paint it or what types of bushes you should plant around it or what kind of food they think you should serve inside it. It’s truly a mad, mad world.

Generally you must invite (by certified mail) all property owners within a radius of a thousand feet to attend a public hearing about your proposed project- which is a lot like being forced to carry the rope to your own hanging. When you cast such a large net many ugly things can be dredged up:

“Your delivery drivers honk at 4:00 a.m. to be let into your store.”

“Every morning at 6:00 your trash is picked up-- can’t you make it later?”

“You should have to build a fence.”

“Your donuts are stale.”

Boy did I screw up. Blithely thinking that re-directing the menu board away from the angry rabble would placate them, I was forced instead to account for transgressions previously unknown. Because I thought our proposal would be a slam dunk, my donut client was not in attendance. I was on my own, and there was nothing left to do but grovel:

“We’ll do anything you want; please just give us a permit.”

Since then, we’ve addressed the concerns of the neighbors. Delivery drivers have been instructed not to honk. Trash pick-up has been re-scheduled for later in the morning. We promised to build a new fence, the donuts are fresher, and up until this morning everything was looking good because two days ago the planning commission voted to recommend to the city council that they approve our variance request.

In a truly magnanimous gesture, I called the most vociferous complainer this morning to thank her for her concerns and express my subservient gratitude for her participation in civic government. Here’s what she said to me:

“Last night at 3:00 a.m. my husband called the police because one of your employees was singing what appeared to be an Indian love song over your drive-thru speaker. It sounded like Sanjaya Malakar on American Idol, but worse. Our dog wouldn’t stop barking.”

Oh well, back to the drawing board.

And pass me your T-square Frank; I may just need it.

General Order No. 11

You probably know who’s buried in Grant’s tomb, but quick-- who’s the guy on the horse in Grant Park, Chicago? (It’s a trick question and the answer’s not Grant). General John A. Logan is the all-purpose answer to a variety of trivia questions, including:

• Who saved Raleigh, N.C. when angry Union soldiers wanted to destroy the city after hearing that President Lincoln had been assassinated?
• Who ran with James Blaine as the Republican Party’s nominee for Vice President in 1884?
• Who deserves partial credit for the creation of the holiday we now know as Memorial Day?

By 1868 many Americans had already taken up the custom of decorating the graves of those who’d lost their lives fighting in the Civil War. These “Decoration Day” remembrances were often spontaneous, sometimes loosely organized, and many times just private moments spent by grieving widows at the graves of their husbands.

Consequently, the official birthplace of Decoration Day was contested through the years. In 1966, Congress and President Lyndon Johnson declared Waterloo, N.Y. to be the officially recognized site-- but don’t tell that to Carbondale, IL. or Columbus, Miss.

The problem with Decoration Day was that nobody put anything down in writing until General Order No. 11 came along.

By 1866 General Logan had returned to his pre-war job as an Illinois congressman. Like many surviving members of the Union’s forces, Logan also joined the Grand Army of the Republic, an association dedicated to the care of widows and orphans, the establishment of soldiers’ homes, the procurement of pensions and the exercise of its growing political clout. Five of its members were elected President of the United States, and for many years endorsement by the G.A.R. was a prerequisite for any Republican running for President.

When the Commander-in Chief of the G.A.R. issued a General Order to the organization’s membership, people sat up and took notice. On May 5, 1868 then Commander-in-Chief John A. Logan of the Grand Army of the Republic performed an unexpected act of thoughtful bureaucracy when he issued the the following:

General Order No. 11
The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

Had Logan left out the swipe about “rebellion” in the opening paragraph and restricted his order to the first few lines he might have gone down in history as a great reconciler-- but instead he takes another victorious whack:

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion."

Well, in the eyes of Logan, the Rebels had it coming, I guess. (The G.A.R. was an organization of Yankee veterans, after all). Of course, any order issued by a retired General of the Union Army to his fellow veterans didn’t hold with the folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line, regardless of the lofty concepts that followed:

We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

Two years before Logan’s famous order, a group of women had gathered at a cemetery in Columbus, Miss. to decorate the graves of Confederate soldiers. They were disturbed to see the unadorned graves of Union soldiers nearby, and placed flowers on the graves of the Yankees as well. (If Logan had witnessed this touching scene he might have been inclined to back off a bit on the rebellion hyperbole). Still, the man had some measure of foresight and sensitivity:

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us. Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

Somehow, Logan knew that a reminder to honor “the solemn trust” was called for. His prescience was reinforced in December 2000, when Congress passed “The National Moment of Remembrance Act,” which encourages us to keep our hands strong and our hearts warm as we remember all Americans who’ve lost their lives in the defense of liberty. Congress even set aside a convenient time for us to pause in silent reflection: Today at 3:00 p.m.

I recently learned that the dapper gentleman who serves as an usher at our church survived the sinking of his destroyer at Iwo Jima. Bob was just a young Ensign when his ship took three kamikaze hits. That’s the thing about veterans-- they live quietly among us with dreadful memories locked inside which we can't imagine and Hollywood can’t begin to capture-- although the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan” always moves me to tears when Ryan drops to his knees and sobs at the grave of Captain Miller.

At 3:00 p.m. today I’ll be thinking of Bob’s shipmates, 34 souls among the many who've given their lives so we all can enjoy the blessings of liberty. As General Orders go, it’s a duty I’m honored to fulfill.

Happy Memorial Day!

Hail to the Chief

For Immediate Release
Contact:
Public Relations Department
Seattle Grace Hospital
1-800-223-3627
www.seattlegracehosp.com

Seattle, Washington 5/18/07

Dr. Richard Webber, current Chief of Surgery at Seattle Grace Hospital today reversed his earlier decision to appoint Dr. Calliope Torres as his replacement, announcing that a previously unknown candidate had been appointed instead. Dr. Gregory House, the current head of the department of diagnostic medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey was introduced as the new Chief of Surgery to the staff of Seattle Grace Hospital in a hastily called conference later the same day.

Dr. House immediately moved to allay concerns about a diagnostician filling a role normally reserved for a surgeon: “What Seattle Grace needs right now is a serious “cutter”- someone who can cut thru the crap that goes on in this hospital. There’s a new sheriff in town, and I’m going to be kicking some Seattle ass,” said Dr. House.

House then abruptly broke his cane over the head of attending surgeon Derek Shepherd. “How did that feel, doctor?” House asked ominously.

Doctor Shepherd, head of neurosurgery at SGH, replied that it hurt like hell, and that he might just have received a concussion. Dr. House congratulated Shepherd on a successful diagnosis, adding that Shepherd might be able to keep his job if he could manage to quit boinking interns. “Just do your job McYahtzee, or I’ll rattle your dice again,” growled Dr. House.

Visibly alarmed, the rest of the staff squirmed in their chairs as Dr. House erased the scheduled operations from the surgical white board. “This is how we fill out the big board at Princeton-Plainsboro, kiddies. First we list the symptoms, and then we cure the disease.”

Rapidly writing down the names of doctors on one side and interns on the other, the new chief turned to his staff and leeringly suggested that they all play a little game called “Who’s Examining Who?”

“Okay, Dr. Torres. You’re our orthopedic surgeon and you’re married to George O’Malley, who’s currently giving private bone consults to Intern Stevens, right?” Three quick slashes of House’s magic marker laid bare the Torres/O’Malley/Stevens connection.

“O’Malley, wipe that grin off your face and explain yourself!”

George giggled helplessly, leering at both Stevens and Torres. Intern Alex Karev muttered “I didn’t think the little twerp had it in him.”

“I heard that, Karev. We need a separate board just for you, don’t we? Nurses, amnesic patients, doctors, interns-- no one is safe from your affections, are they? And stay out of the morgue, you oversexed pervert.”

“Dr. Torres, they were going to make you Chief of Surgery here even though you recently lived in the basement of this hospital, AND despite the fact that you married that giggling idiot O’Malley? Good God, Calliope, what were they thinking? This hospital may be a circus, but you’re a doctor, not a steamy pipe organ-- despite what O’Malley thinks.

“McFeely, you’re next. You’re all squared away now, aren’t you, Dr. McYahtzee? No more candlelit gynecological exams for Meredith Grey in your love trailer? Good!”

“Dr. Burke, who've you been examining?”

The room was briefly silent.

“Dr. Burke’s gone, Chief.” He packed up his bags and left last night. He was ‘examining’ Christina Yang, and they were going to get married, but our legal department’s currently discussing whether Dr. Burke’s homophobic slurs will merit his dismissal-- so he’s conveniently incommunicado while his fate’s being determined.”

“Who'd he insult?” demanded House.

“Intern O’Malley, sir.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! O’Malley should be head of orthopedics with that magic bone of his! Even though he failed his intern exam he must be doing something right-- Stevens and Torres are all over that little idiot.”

“Dr. Bailey, who are you currently ‘examining’?”

“Just my husband, you New Jersey Jerk.”

“I like you, Dr. Bailey,” said House.

“Dr. Sloan?”

“Here, sir.”

“You look kind of down, Sloan, what’s up?”

“Not much anymore, Chief. I was happily boffing Derek’s wife Addison, and even managed to slip a quick one to Dr. Torres while O’Malley was working his magic on Izzie Stevens-- but Addison moved to California, and now Callie and Izzie are obsessed with O’Malley.”

“Well, at least you can finally concentrate on your work now, Dr. Sloan. Go take a cold shower and 8 Vicodin.”

“Right, Chief.”

“Meredith Grey… Dr. Webber tells me that your self-centered attitude has caused more unhappiness here at Seattle Grace in just a few short years than any other intern previously employed at this hospital. He’s amazed that a scrawny, empty headed little moron like yourself could transfix a prominent neurosurgeon like Dr. McYahtzee. But I'm going to give you one more chance, Grey. I'm putting you in charge of the pharmacy, and as long as you keep it stocked with Vicodin everything will be just fine."

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

On this Mother’s Day instead of a card I thought I’d apologize for some of the stupid things we did as kids. I’m so sorry Steve and I strapped our youngest brother John into a “space capsule” made from two laundry baskets roped together and sent him rocketing down the stairs after convincing him that astronaut re-entry training would be a fun game to play.

I deeply regret dabbing mayonnaise from the sandwich you made me for the cub scouts’ annual harbor cruise onto my shoulder, and waiting for you to tell me a seagull had crapped on me. Wiping the mayonnaise off with my finger and then tasting it was a rotten trick but the look on your face was truly priceless.

And that time when Steve got sick after we had a contest to see who could keep a beef bullion cube in our mouths the longest- I’m sorry about that one, too.

I know we should have promptly told you that John needed stitches instead of tying strands of his hair together to close the cut on his scalp after his collision with the coffee table, but you and dad were out shopping and John was bleeding and screaming “There’s a hole in my head.” Well, we got the bleeding stopped and even though you didn’t find out until later when you thought that the clotted blood was dirt we really should have confessed sooner.

Remember when Rob got mad because the front end of his train set’s locomotive was dented? Steve and I used to sneak into Rob’s room when he wasn’t there and rearrange his train tracks to launch his locomotive off the end of the table to see how far it would fly. Sorry, mom, and sorry Rob.

Mom, when you and dad put in a pool for us we should have shown our gratitude by swimming responsibly instead of diving in from the patio roof and putting rocks in our pockets while we used dad’s air compressor to breathe underwater-- but kids will be kids.

Nobody remembers paper drives anymore since we all have curbside recycling, but our boy scout troop would have made more money back then if Brett Olin and I hadn’t accidentally ignited the newspapers piled in his backyard while launching our home-made rockets into the tinder-dry canyon behind his house. Sorry about that one, too.

I now realize I shouldn't have suggested that we remove the center leaf from our dining room table and put a 30 gallon trash can under the gap and use paper plates which could easily be shoved directly into the can, saving time and effort previously expended on clearing the table and doing the dishes-- but it sure seemed like a good idea at the time.

Mom, through the years you’ve loved us and laughed with us and we all cherish your quirky way of looking at life. While most mothers gave their kids boring advice like “Always wear clean underwear,” you gave us cryptic proclamations like “We better bring quarters since we might need our jackets.”

Life is not just about clean underwear, mom. It’s about having as much fun as you can without breaking your limbs, getting too sick, bleeding too much, or lighting yourself on fire while shooting off rockets.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Love, Gary

Tonight's The Night!

Seven years after moving from San Diego I’ve acclimated myself to nearly all things Chicago, from City Hall “patronage” to loveable losers like our Cubs. I’ve learned that we drag our hot dogs “through the garden” and we detest the Packers with the same intensity we reserve for people who move here from La-La Land. (I quickly learned it was best to claim I was born in Wisconsin, not California).

I’ve braved icy winters and sweated through blast-furnace summers. I now understand the Aldermanic form of government, which is loosely based on medieval fiefdoms-- except that serfs here are called constituents, not peasants. I’ve learned that the concept of freeways is for socialistic states, since any serf who can afford a car should also be expected to pay a toll.

I’ve learned to love Da Bears, bratwurst and Da Blues Brothers. In short, I’ve rejected my California birthright to study the ways of the Midwesterner. But like Harry Potter, I’ve yet to pass a final test: Magicicada Septendecim.

“You’ve never seen or heard anything like them,” my wife promises. Even now, they’re rising up from their subterranean lairs in a Hemipteran frenzy, their little red eyes mad with lust. They are the Seventeen Year Cicada, one of Earth’s longest living insects, and most sexually deprived.

Let’s face it, if you’re a bug with only one chance to score after seventeen years of sucking on tree roots, you’d make some noise too. Once the three magic temperatures coincide (soil: 63 degrees, air: 68 degrees, Cicada temperature: burning with desire) they will burst from the ground in a strategy known as “predator satiation” to maximize their chance of reproducing successfully without being eaten or stomped on.

Periodical cicadas are a testament to either evolution or creation depending on your personal beliefs. 17 year cicadas and their cousins the 13 year cicadas are geographically distributed in broods which emerge in a mathematically choreographed pattern to avoid interaction between the two species. Since 13 and 17 are both prime numbers the two species surface concurrently just once every 221 years, minimizing the likelihood of bad blood and bar fights. These periodic cycles also help cicada broods survive temperature anomalies like the occasional cool summer. (I haven’t experienced a single cool summer in Chicago yet, but I haven’t lived here for seventeen years, either).

Sometime in the next few weeks we’ll struggle to sleep through a cacophony of cicadan revelry-- but I won’t begrudge them their fun. Instead, I’ll remember the guy at the sex study who leapt to his feet and frantically waved his hand when the researcher asked if anyone there had sex less frequently than twice a year. When asked why he was so excited the poor guy shouted, “Because tonight’s THE NIGHT!”

The Final Frontier

Since the days of the Wright brothers we’ve built increasingly complex machines to carry ourselves into the sky. The Marine Corps recently announced the deployment of the MV-22 Osprey, a cross between a helicopter and a fixed wing plane. The Osprey is difficult to fly and dangerous to land, having claimed several lives during its test program. Aircraft and even starships are complicated devices worthy of our respect, and no one knew this better than Montgomery Scott of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Scotty’s expertise in aeronautical engineering is widely acknowledged, but many don't know that James Doohan served as a pilot during World War II. Originally a captain in the Royal Canadian Artillery, Jimmy was machine-gunned at Normandy on D-Day. Following his convalescence he was assigned to 43 Operational Training Unit, Andover, England, where he earned Air Observation Post Pilot’s wings. Doohan’s intended assignment was to direct artillery fire from the air, but his unit was posted to Holland, where he flew non-combat missions for the 666 AOP squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force. Jimmy had already been shot six times, so nobody complained, least of all Doohan.

Five years earlier, hundreds of Americans knowingly broke the law with the tacit approval of the U.S. government when they crossed into Canada to join the Royal Canadian Air Force. America was officially neutral at the time, but many Americans, including a young man named John Gillespie Magee, Jr. heard about the Battle of Britain and decided to forego a formal invitation to fight the Nazis.

Magee was only 18 years old when he entered flight training, and in less than a year was assigned to 412 Fighter Squadron at Digby England, where he flew the Supermarine Spitfire. He quickly rose to the rank of Pilot Officer while flying missions over France and England. Shortly before Magee was killed in a mid-air collision at the age of 19, he composed this famous poem which came to mind Saturday as I watched a rocket carry the remains of Captain James Doohan into space:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

you have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

high in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

the high untresspassed sanctity of space,

put out my hand and touched the face of God.

James and John both risked their lives fighting tyranny, and young men and women still climb into dangerous machines today, slipping the surly bonds of earth to defend liberty. Like Magee, some will not come home alive. I like to think though that for one glorious moment Saturday, John’s soul and the souls of all pilots who’ve given their lives for just causes met their brother James when he soared into the sanctity of space, and that together they all joined hands, and touched the face of God.