“He earned his love through discipline, a thundering velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand
The leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man
I’m just a living legacy, to the leader of the band”
– Dan Fogelberg
Humility, bravery and modesty used to be American virtues that people admired and were expected from quality men. Medal of Honor winners, when someone referred to them as heroes, would reply, “The real heroes are the ones who didn’t make it back.”
My Dad was from that Greatest Generation. He joined the Navy before World War II and patrolled the Atlantic on an aircraft carrier. Dad’s job was fireman (MAN…not “firefighter” or “fire person”) on the deck putting out fires and saving the pilots who crash landed on the deck. In the late 40’s the Air Force was created, and he continued that job as I was born and started growing up.
Once when I was eight years old, he was about to go to work and couldn’t find his pocket knife. He was heading to the flight line for a shift with the fire department.
In those days, all men and boys of all ages carried a pocket knife. Dad asked if he could borrow my Boy Scout knife for the day. He left and at the end of the day, he gave me back my knife and all he said was “Thanks, Son.”
That night a couple of his friends, fellow airmen/firemen were hanging out with my Dad having a couple of beers. I overheard their conversation from the next room.
Apparently a B-52 bomber had crash landed that day and caught fire in a big way.
The hatch was jammed, so he climbed onto the fuselage of the massive burning plane. Using my pocket knife, he unscrewed the hatch, pulling the unconscious pilot to safety. The plane exploded a few minutes after they got clear.
He never spoke of it ever. Just another work day.
We are not the same. If I had done what he had, I would want the Medal of Honor, a pile of money and my own TV show. Of course, no way my cowardly butt could have ever mustered that kind of courage for any price.
My mother was sick on and off during my and my brothers’ childhood. She was in and out of hospitals most of my life and wasn’t able to be there for us. So it was all up to my Dad.
He knew he had to teach us to be self-sufficient and be able to survive.
We learned to iron our own clothes, cook basic meals and do our own house cleaning.
Dad trained us to have and use responsibility, to be dependable, and importantly…to learn to LEARN. There was no, “I don’t know how!” It was your duty to find out how and do it. And don’t whine!
He taught us to swim. By taking us on his boat into the middle of the bay near the house. And tossing us into the water. My father was a very strong swimmer, so he would jump in after us to make sure none of us died. So as to not aggravate our mother. She would count heads when we got home.
When I was about to turn 14 years old, my Dad decided it was time to get a learner’s permit to drive, even though I wasn’t really into it. In those days in Panama City where we lived for 5 years, you could get it at 14.
I had driven a little bit on the rural gravel roads near the family farmhouse in Eupora, Mississippi (which all Salley kids did starting as soon as you could reach the pedals). I didn’t have any experience in “official” driving in a more urban setting.
My father had me drive a stick shift station wagon for maybe 30 minutes in the calm streets of our neighborhood. I had never used a stick before.
Sitting next me, he directed me up the street to the main highway. By now I was panicking. It was rush hour by now.
A hole in the 55 mph traffic appeared, and Dad said “Jump in now!” I prayed and closed my eyes for a second. Then took the leap.
Thirty-five minutes into my one and only driving lesson, I was rolling onto a major highway crammed with cars going fast. And blowing their horns at me for being slow.
Dad: “You did good.”
Boys in the 50s and 60s were expected to defend their honor with their fists.
I guess it was part of our “toxic masculinity.” No guns, knives or real violence, and you were to accept defeat or victory like a gentleman and shake hands.
Being a scrawny 115 pound kid, I did a LOT of shaking hands. And it wasn’t to celebrate my win. I always lost. Sometimes real badly. And when I told my father each time, he didn’t call a lawyer and threaten to sue someone. The boxing gloves came out of the closet and it was time for yet another useless boxing lesson.
Dad had been a competitive boxer in the service when he was young. Me? I hated getting popped in the face, glove or not. But my father was satisfied that I would stand up for myself… win or lose.
When I look around and see 30 and 40 year old “men” who couldn’t change a tire if their lives depended on it and look at a gun like it were a snake about to bite them… thank you, Dad, thank you.
If you were raised by a father of that absolutely Great Generation, stop what you are doing for a minute, close your eyes, and remember them.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
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