Scot wanted to stop and chat with my dad about any stories he might know about his own dad, who had died tragically in a mid-air collision over Kentucky during the mid 1960s. The collision was between a KC-135 (of which his dad was Nav) and a B-52. The two planes had hooked up for a refueling when the B-52 pilot, who was somewhat inexperienced, moved his plane about 20 yards forward, and then proceeded to bank (presumably to correct his mistake). His wing collided with that of the KC135, resulting in a fireball so spectacular, it was seen for 100s of miles around.
Scot did not remember anything about his dad. He was a kid when this happened. And his mother had refused to talk about it.
It is not all that unusual for old Air Force acquaintances to pop up like this every so often. We share connections that have persisted over many years, in some cases, stronger than the bonds of blood relations. People often ask me where I am from. I find myself providing different answers based on how I am feeling at the time. Some times I'm from Louisiana (where I was born); or southern Indiana (the home town of my parents); or from upper peninsula Michigan (where my heart lies); or from St. Louis, where I went to high school; or from various other places I have lived (and where my siblings were born, etc.). When I am feeling particularly aggravated by this question, I answer simply: "I am from the Air Force". This last response results in expressions of confusion or puzzlement on the part of the questioner. Yet this, more than any other answer, is closest to the truth.
It particularly hit home this evening, as my dad and Scot continued to converse about his dead father, that the Air Force was our "home town". We grew up in it, we share the connections that people from normal home towns share. We feel a need to return and understand our home town roots, yet in our case, this is impossible, because our "home town" is scattered over 100s of military bases all over the world. It is a curious existence.
I've only recently met two people who are also children of the military. As I was going to right "Military brat" it didn't seem fair to call them that, but that's what they called themselves. A class in and of itself. I've since asked them, knowing this, where they consider themselves from, and they get the puzzled expression as they try to figure it out. One bases it on where her extended family is from, and another picks the place where his parents have settled.
ReplyDeleteIt's amazing to me that some people just don't get your answer about "From the Airforce" We live in such virtual times that your answer could be one of the first virtual communities. Concept as Place. One day our children (not mine since I don't have any) will say, I'm from the Internet. Maybe...I'm sure they'll be more specific. I'm from Second Life, Azeroth, something new.
I just sent an email to Dia Sobin asking her to join us on Twitter where we've formed our own Posthuman community in 140 characters.
No reason to pine alone. Out here in the Aether we can find our Kismet Friends and Virtual SemiFamily.
Please don't hate me because I don't Twitter!
ReplyDelete"I am from the Air Force"
ReplyDeleteWhen I was in my teens, i read a book written by the father of Mexican Ufology. At the part pertaining a close encounter case reported by a pilot, the author elaborated on the idea that airplane pilots experience some form of 'mutation', due to their extensive training: their dependence to 'feel' the instruments of their vessels as part of their body, and the subtle differences in air pressure, etc, in order to stay alive.
And given what we now know about epigenetics, there's a very good possibility those mutations are passed along to their offspring.
PS: It's good to see you back at the blogging game :)
I really enjoyed reading the story that you very well presented.
ReplyDeleteThank you.