My parents got divorced when I was six and I grew up with my Mom, so my father/son time was limited. But my Dad never moved anywhere more than 30 minutes or so away from my house. I give him a lot of credit for this because in my experience many divorced dads tend to distance themselves from their ex-wives' children, both physically and emotionally, which my dad never did.
Anyway, I guess my capacity for long-term recollection was just starting to take form at five years old because my memories from around that time are hazy and in most cases are merely impressions of sounds, smells or moments of pain (like when I opened up my foot on a piece of wire). But I have a very strong recollection of the small plane Dad used to own; a single engine Mooney design (with the signature forward-slanting tail), which was white with brown striping and a tan interior with spider webs of cracks in the leather seats. I've never seen pictures of the plane and Dad sold it right around the time of the divorce. I think the only reason I remember it so well is because one of the outstanding moments of my entire life occurred inside of it.
Dad took me up in that plane just once before he sold it. I sat in the co-pilot's seat, barely able to see above the instrument panel. I remember wearing a headset that even cinched to its smallest size was still way too big for me - the actual earpieces may have been hanging down around my lower jaw. The second yoke was in front of me, an immense thing, and the many dials and displays were entirely beyond my understanding. The propeller chok-chok-choked and roared to life, the engine thrummed, and Dad flicked switches with authority and spoke arcane and incomprehensible words into his headset mike. My stomach shot into my throat as we left the ground and, in that moment, Dad became something much more than the man I had known up to that point.
As we flew, I was in a sort of ecstasy even before Dad told me to take hold of the yoke in front of me. I have no idea how high we were, as I was not big enough to be able to look down out of the window and could only see the ceiling of clouds not far above. I stretched my arms nearly as far as they would reach and grasped the yoke. In it I could feel powerful forces; the pull of the engine and the wind. The yoke had a life of its own, with sharp little movements left and right, in and out. More than a little awestruck, I looked at my dad, who was smiling broadly at me. "Son," he said, "you are flying." That was when I realized that dad's hands were in his lap and the plane (it seemed) was entirely in my control.
I don't remember how much time went by before my dad put his hands back on the controls, not long, I suspect, but I will never forget that moment. As remarkable as the physical experience of flying was, it was the sense for the first time that my father really trusted me and had faith that I could handle such a momentous undertaking (however briefly) that etched the memory so sharply in my consciousness.
I have a son of my own now, not yet two years old. I only hope that I can give him memories as wonderful and enduring as those my dad gave me.
Anyway, I guess my capacity for long-term recollection was just starting to take form at five years old because my memories from around that time are hazy and in most cases are merely impressions of sounds, smells or moments of pain (like when I opened up my foot on a piece of wire). But I have a very strong recollection of the small plane Dad used to own; a single engine Mooney design (with the signature forward-slanting tail), which was white with brown striping and a tan interior with spider webs of cracks in the leather seats. I've never seen pictures of the plane and Dad sold it right around the time of the divorce. I think the only reason I remember it so well is because one of the outstanding moments of my entire life occurred inside of it.
Dad took me up in that plane just once before he sold it. I sat in the co-pilot's seat, barely able to see above the instrument panel. I remember wearing a headset that even cinched to its smallest size was still way too big for me - the actual earpieces may have been hanging down around my lower jaw. The second yoke was in front of me, an immense thing, and the many dials and displays were entirely beyond my understanding. The propeller chok-chok-choked and roared to life, the engine thrummed, and Dad flicked switches with authority and spoke arcane and incomprehensible words into his headset mike. My stomach shot into my throat as we left the ground and, in that moment, Dad became something much more than the man I had known up to that point.
As we flew, I was in a sort of ecstasy even before Dad told me to take hold of the yoke in front of me. I have no idea how high we were, as I was not big enough to be able to look down out of the window and could only see the ceiling of clouds not far above. I stretched my arms nearly as far as they would reach and grasped the yoke. In it I could feel powerful forces; the pull of the engine and the wind. The yoke had a life of its own, with sharp little movements left and right, in and out. More than a little awestruck, I looked at my dad, who was smiling broadly at me. "Son," he said, "you are flying." That was when I realized that dad's hands were in his lap and the plane (it seemed) was entirely in my control.
I don't remember how much time went by before my dad put his hands back on the controls, not long, I suspect, but I will never forget that moment. As remarkable as the physical experience of flying was, it was the sense for the first time that my father really trusted me and had faith that I could handle such a momentous undertaking (however briefly) that etched the memory so sharply in my consciousness.
I have a son of my own now, not yet two years old. I only hope that I can give him memories as wonderful and enduring as those my dad gave me.