(The venerable F9F Panther flown by a Sierra Hotel Naval Aviator- just ask him- in the early 1960s. Photo USN).
Steve Canyon is in town, and rang me up to see if we could get together and talk something over. I agreed, since Steve is one of my favorite shipmates, from the time I met him as one of savvy veterans of the unpleasantness in SE Asia on the teaching staff of the Armed Forces Air Intelligence School at Lowry AFB in Denver.
Steve had been to The Show with the legendary Studies and Observation Group, and that may have accounted for his barely contained contempt for the straight-leg nature of the Service in peacetime. We students admired his coolness.
Our paths crossed periodically in the years after- it is a small Fleet, after all, but most of our best adventures came when we formed a co-conspiracy against our superiors when we worked at the Phone Company after retirement.
Steve and his bride are dealing with the same sort of dementia in the senior generation that I had, with the exception that it is the parents of his lovely bride. There are many similarities in the whole thing- the men were Navy Pilots, with the risk-taking talent and coordination that goes along with it, and the Mom’s were homemakers.
Things diverged from that. Mom insisted that Raven stop flying hulking attack aircraft, since he was a family man, and he meekly agreed and got out of the reserves. Big Mama was very much her own woman, and went back to work when she considered her three delinquents ready to shift for themselves.
She had validation outside the home, and she loved her man right to the end of things. And if the coincidental timing of their passing is any indication, their love survived beyond the end of the End County Maintenance sign on the road.
Not so much for Steve’s in-laws, who are nearing the last mile-markers in a different mood. The Father in Law is going down Raven’s road now, but their paths diverged before they became the same. Steve’ Father-in-law stayed active Navy, and rose through the predictable and challenging wickets of command at sea at least three times to make Rear Admiral.
If you have not considered just how hard that is on a family, particularly a large Irish-American family, consider this one: in all those moves, he got to fly his jet to wherever they were going, and the Mother-in-law got to pack up the house, rip the kids out of school, deal with the tears and unpack the whole mess on the other end.
Eventually, seven kids.
I had the opportunity to participate in the birth and development of two; Big Mama did the analysis and thought three was sufficient. I don’t know how she did it, but the idea of dealing with seven belligerent constituents boggled my mind.
Steve took a sip of beer at Willow and looked up toward the Amen Corner where Old Jim was flanked by Jon-without, the Lovely Bea and John-with. “I have never been here,” he said. “Nice place. But check this out: orders came for the bold pilot to transfer from NAS North Island to Oceana or someplace on the East Coast. Off went the jet and the white silk scarf, while Mom packed four kids under the age of five into the sedan to drive across the country.”
“Great leaping Jesus,” I said, involuntarily taking a deep draught of the happy Hour white and shivering. “That is a horror beyond imagining. I had to drive from DC to Coronado twice in three weeks to get the family out to San Diego.”
“Precisely,” said Steve. “So you can understand there are still some issues to be worked out now that they both are forgetting some things and can never let go of others.”
“Ugh,” I said. “I guess Raven was pretty lucky to have met Big Mama. As the super-ego goes, the real deal emerges. He became a sweet guy at the end. Not a mean bone in his body.”
“Doesn’t always work out that way,” said Steve. Then we went on to talk about what he really came to talk about. It was exactly the sort of thing you might see some broken down ex-Spooks huddled at any bar discussing in low voices.
It might even happen. You never can tell.
(Another mode of 1960s travel across America. “Mom! she is on my side!!!”)
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
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