We Think of Him Often, Remember Him Well

For some reason I feel like writing with a Canadian accent.  My father was Canadian.  He called the Montreal hockey team the "Cana-dee-aans".  And he would end a sentence with "do you see?"  or eah?  We had a back yard hockey rink when I was a kid in New Jersey.  We'd had a few pretty cold winters strung together for a few years.  My dad had terraced off  the back yard to make a level grass court.  He would flood it in the winter with hot and cold water from the house.  It wasn't very big but we had some little hockey games and lots of neighbors came over to skate.  My dad could really skate.  He had played a few seasons of semi pro when he was young and it was in another world.  On our little rink I don;t remember   him ever skating forward,  except once when I asked him to just go fast.  He just ran across the rink on the toes of his skates.  He was 56 years old then.  Later when I was in junior high,  he taught me rifle shooting.  And he was a pilot too.  He was long out of that by the time I started flying.  But it seemed he added a lot of input and influence and encouragement to my flying career.  When I started flight instructing I think he was proud of me.  He had instructed during the war in the civilian program.  I wasn't thinking of a career really.  I was 22 years old and assumed I was immortal and knew everything.  But my father used to tell me flying stories and they always had a moral.  Usually a safety warning.  But when I got that instructor rating he gave me his professional advice.  He told me there were only three ways to make money in aviation.  And instructing wasn't one of them!  Get into crop dusting (he called it spraying);  sales; or the major airlines.  That's it son.  He taught my brothers and I how to play chess.  We kept trying to change the rules and make it more fun and play war with the pieces like toy soldiers.  He would not let us do that.  He made us be quiet and respect the game.  We would also try to just take each others men in a sloppy chess battle.  He would have none of that either.  Either go for the checkmate or he puts the game away.  Put the game away.  When we got rowdy he used to say "put it up".  He would sometimes play harmonica and sing old songs.  Really old songs.  We would sit by the fireplace and sing songs.  But my father would only want to hear the old ballads.

My older brother has been playing chess for 56 years.  He's been a rated player for maybe 25 years.  He got the bug from Dad.

My younger brother played guitar and sang ballads professionally for many years and is still in the music business.  He got the bug from Dad.

I'm the pilot.  I got the bug from Dad.

I have a sister too.  She is the oldest.  The first born.  She is like our mother.  Very sweet,  kind, gracious,  sympathetic, tender,  beautiful.   But Mom wouldn't have had the drive or focus or will to go to law school and become a successful attorney.  Sister got that from Dad.

It's almost 2AM.  What shoud I do Dad,  keep sitting at the computer?
"Put it up!"

LLITTY     :::::+:::::