805 Columbia Ridge Drive was a landfill for several years before becoming the preferred site for Columbia Presbyterian Church. More “clean” landfill and lots of lumber later the church was built and thrived in the early 1960’s. I remember Dad driving the family across the empty lot as it was cleared and leveled. I asked where we were. “It’s where they are building the church” my sister Terri answered. Soon yellow pine framing was taking shape and that same knotty yellow pine was featured in the ceiling of the sanctuary. The dark irregular knots perhaps a reminder of our fallen state before God. Unfortunately the site selection did cause many foundation issues with the building, but not the spirit of those intent on worship. In the basement was the fellowship hall which hosted many pot luck dinners and father-son banquets. One such dinner featured NBA center Leroy Ellis as the guest speaker. I remember getting an autograph and “Rip City” written next to his name. But the highlight of the evening was music by the associate pastor, Chris Kersting and another singer. “Bridge Over Troubled Water” in a soulful duet with guitar accompaniment made an impression on Dad that few other popular songs of the day had.
This benediction, sung with a seven fold amen, a marvelous short piece composed by Peter Lutkin, closed many, many services I attended as a youngster, often sitting in the choir loft of Columbia Pres as we called the church. The choir loft is in the back of the sanctuary offering cover for the choir directors kids and anonymity for the choir so that robes were not required attire. The vividness and clarity with which I remember my dad directing the choir in a black suit, thin tie and clean pressed white shirt is etched on my memory as if it were my right hand.
One day Mom took me along to look for a pair of slippers. I asked what the slippers were for and she said the choir director did not want to see her stocking feet operating the foot pedals on the organ. “Dad is the choir director” I retorted. She said, “Exactly”. So there was a decorum that had to be upheld in Dad’s choir loft especially by the ones he held dear that might be in the vicinity of his influence.
At home we regularly said prayer before the evening meal with hands folded:
“Come our Jesus, Be thou our guest, and let these gifts in mercy be blessed, Amen.”
This prayer was recited in unison by Mom, Dad and four kids at the dinner table I would say without fail for at least the five years I lived with Mom and Dad together with my brother and sisters on H Street.
Evenings found each child saying prayers with one or the other parent with a list of blessings for family that might go around the world once or twice when completed.
A lifetime of benedictions and prayers later I found myself wandering through Mountain View Cemetery and as that lifetime passed before my minds eye, all at once I was standing at the foot of Dad’s grave. So what a wonder, what a profound loss I felt as I knelt at his simple granite marker and the only thing I had to offer was tears. Honest tears. Tears my pride did not want to shed even in the presence of my brother and sister who sat close and consoled my crumbling facade. He had been a fixture in my life for 64 years. Many of my thoughts at that moment went back to the time that we were bachelors together at the house on H Street. How graciously he received me and supported me during my college days.
And now the conversations were over. The advice, for better or worse was given. The son, student, father, Lieutenant Colonel, meteorologist, CPA was now available only as a memory. Even with the expectation of his death imminent the emptiness I felt at that moment was truly, truly profound and unknown. My knees and feet felt every inch of the sod beneath them on that hill at Mountain View.
Steve gave me a jacket that Dad very often wore. A light weight dark blue flight jacket that is now draped over the headrest of my car. A small prize that reminds me that memory is all there is now. But there are the memories that bubble up based on a thought, a word or even a TV show and then there is active purposeful routines that one might institute to honor the departed. I am trying to decide which day would be most appropriate to read out loud Dads Air National Guard commendation. Right now the document rests on our mantle in Houston along with his service flag. Might even follow that up with a boisterous verse or two of The Air Force Song:
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,
At 'em boys, give 'er the gun (give 'er the gun now!)
Down we dive spouting our flame from under
Off with one helluva roar!
We live in fame or go down in flame, hey!
Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!
(Additional verses:)
Minds of men fashioned a crate of thunder,
Sent it high into the blue;
Hands of men blasted the world asunder;
How they lived god only knew!
Souls of men dreaming of skies to conquer
Gave us wings, ever to soar!
With scouts before and bombers galore, hey!
Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!
Off we go into the wild sky yonder,
Keep the wings level and true.
If you'd live to be a grey-haired wonder
Keep the nose out of the blue!
Flying men guarding the nation's border,
We'll be there, followed by more!
In echelon we carry on, hey!
Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!
Bridge: A Toast to the Host
Here's a toast to the host
Of those who love the vastness of the sky,
To a friend we will send a message of his brothermen who fly
We drink to those who gave their all of old,
Then down we roar to score the rainbow's pot of gold
A toast to the host of men we boast, the U.S. Air Force! (to top)
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,
At 'em boys, give 'er the gun (give 'er the gun now!)
Down we dive spouting our flame from under
Off with one helluva roar!
We live in fame or go down in flame, hey!
Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!