One of a Kind

One thing about my dad that even many people who knew him well don’t know is that he was a regular cigarette smoker in the early 1970’s.  Maybe it was a habit leftover from his college days or from his time in the Air Force; I’m not sure.  What I do know is that when I was five years old, I regularly hid packs of Dad’s cigarettes in the couch cushions so that he couldn’t find them, which infuriated him.   I remember laughing to myself as he stormed around the house looking for them.   The Surgeon General had declared that cigarette smoking was dangerous to one’s health by that time, but I don’t think most people had an understanding of what the risks were and so they weren’t motivated to quit.  I, of course, didn’t comprehend the health risks at the time; I hid the cigarettes from him because I hated the smell of smoke.  I remember reading the warning on the packaging and thinking that when Dad looked in the drawer for his cigarettes after supper that night and couldn’t find them because I’d hidden them again, the person’s health that was in danger was mine!

Dad was running at the time too, and I’m guessing it was the effects of smoking on his running performance more than my protest via sabotage that spurred him to kick the habit.  Like many trying-to-quit smokers, Dad went from one habit to another during his cessation effort; he traded in his cigarettes for gum and candy.

 

After awhile, his dentist told him he had to quit that, too; I think at one point he ended up with several cavities at once from all the sugar-laden stuff he was eating, and I know on more than one occasion he cracked a tooth from biting down on hard candy. 

So Dad gave up gum and candy.  Like many competitive athletes, he kept close tabs on his weight; he said that he didn’t want to gain weight because it would mean carrying extra pounds on his run, which would slow him down.  So he took up something new:  chewing tape.   He preferred scotch tape, but he was really an equal-opportunity tape chewer. 

In my profession, I have learned that research shows that crunching and chewing can release a chemical in the brain that helps people stay calm and focused, like chewing fingernails when a person is nervous.  My theory is that, besides wanting to keep his hands out of the cookie jar to keep himself in good shape for running, Dad kept his concentration on the task at hand by chewing things.  He and I used to talk about how he was the Original A.D.D. Guy, and I think the cigarettes – gum/candy – tape helped to keep him centered.

Visiting Dad at his office

 He chewed tape from time to time over a course of many years.  One thing about Dad that we heard for the first time while he was sick was about this very habit.  As the story goes, the employees in Dad’s office noticed that they often ran out of scotch tape.  They couldn’t figure out why they were having to re-order tape so often.  One night, a couple of the staff members stayed late to measure the height of the roll of the tape in everyone’s tape dispensers.  When they re-measured at the end of the next business day, Dad was identified as the culprit.  They asked him what he did with all that tape in such a short period of time, and he replied, “I chew it,” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  Luckily, he was the boss and everyone there was used to his quirkiness, and so the other employees just chalked it up to yet another endearing part of his unique , one-of-a-kind personality.

Photos From Vietnam

Airman 4 William Bullard

I recently came across some photos that I had never seen before that my Dad took while he was serving in the Air Force, including pictures from the Philippines and Vietnam during the Vietnam War.

Dad running in Vietnam

What is it about War that so often draws grown met back to it in their memories when they are nearing the end of their journey?  Is it that it was so terrible, that it transformed them, that it gave them perspective, that it “grew them up”, that it was something they regretted, or that it was something they were so proud to have done?

The only things I ever remember my dad telling me while I was growing up about his time in Vietnam was that it was a beautiful country to which he’d one day like to return and that his job there was guarding weapons on the night shift.  To keep himself awake during his shift, he often ran around the perimeter of the storage area he was guarding.  He said he hated it when his dog tags hit against his chest when he ran, and so, since he knew he had to have them on his person at all times, he just put them into his jock strap while he ran.

Dad at Clark AFB

A water buffalo in Vietnam ~ photo by BB

During the time that Dad was sick, though, on several occasions he talked about Vietnam and his time in the Air Force.  When he had the high fever that landed him in the hospital for the second and final time, he was hallucinating from the pain, the fever, and later from the medicine they gave him to try to relieve the first two.  As they often do in the hospital, a nurse asked him what his level of pain was on a scale of 1 to 10 when he was admitted.  Even around the time of his diagnosis and brain surgery, I’d never heard him say that his pain was more than a 7, but this time he said it was a 9.

We wanted the nurse to take note that his 9 was like most other people’s 109; he just didn’t notice pain like other people and, when he did, he didn’t complain about it or let it stop him from doing anything.  He immediately tried to retract the 9, though, by saying, “I don’t want to complain!  I don’t want to be a wimp!  Soldiers in trenches in Vietnam had their legs blown off and they could say their pain is a 9, but I shouldn’t say that!”  If anyone had asked me what the level of pain in my heart was on a scale of 1 to 10 at that time, I would have said a 10+. 

One thing I haven’t gotten to yet in this blog is that my family is also grieving for my dad’s mother, who died a little less than four months after my dad did.  Grandmom was fiercely independent, but she had been suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease for about three years.  She was very religious and, at 90 years old, was one of those people who has lived her life and was ready to go on ahead.  Thus, her passing brought us a different kind of grief.  Grief, still, though, and maybe there is more to come from her passing because we are still trying to move through the Quicksand of Grief after Dad’s death. 

Border between Laos and Vietnam ~ photo by BB

At Hundred Islands (Philippines)

"Sure beats a tent!" Dad wrote on the back of this one

"Market Place on Laos Border" ~ photo by BB

Monks in Vietnam ~ photo by BB

Mt. Lemmon Air Force Station ~ photo by BB

"Negrito at Negrito Village," Dad wrote on the back.

Radar Station at Mt. Lemmon AF Station ~ photo by BB

"Typical Thai family house," Dad noted on this one

The pictures I found were ones that he had mailed to his mother while he was overseas.  Like Grandmom did with all correspondence that she’d ever received, she filed those photos away for future reference, and they were part of what my parents saved from her house when they packed up her belongings when she moved into the nursing home. 

My dad’s mom wasn’t the kind of person who held children in her lap or spouted out frequent I love you’s or you’re so cute’s, but she was fiercely proud of her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, and she let us know that in her own way.  I imagine her heart almost burst with pride and at the same time almost broke with fear and sadness many years ago when she watched her teenaged son board the bus that was bound for the Air Force base from where he was going to the Vietnam War.




 Grandmom wasn’t unloving or unemotional, she was practical:  when she told Dad goodbye when he left to go to Vietnam, she didn’t cry.  I asked her about it once, how it was to let him go into such a dangerous place, to go off to war, to go away on a journey that he might not come back from and from which he certainly wouldn’t come back as the same person.  She said, “I didn’t see the point of crying; crying seemed useless and wasteful, and I didn’t want to make him worry or feel badly that he had to go.  He was going, there was nothing I could do about it.  I just hoped and prayed that he would get there safely, and I made myself think about how wonderful it would be when I got to see him again.”

Ironic, because now that I think about what she said, I realize that those were the same words that went through my head on the day that my dad died.

You were a brave soldier to the end, Dad.  I hope you made it just fine and that it’s beautiful over there; I hope that you can tuck in your dog tags or your angel wings or whatever you have over there while you’re running in the clouds.  I'm making myself think about how wonderful it will be when I get to see you again one day.

Dad and his best friend Wayne on a patriotic run, celebrating America the Beautiful