The pyro field

“So, when was the last time you stripped a wire successfully?”

That was all he wrote.  Not a “hi” or a “how are classes going?” Instead, an 11-word text message reminder to keep my skill sharp during the offseason.  That’s my dad.

While my dad and I are close, we’ve never had a typical relationship.  Raising daughters is never easy for any guy, but he did the best he could.  At an early age, my sister and I could outhit and out spit any boy on the baseball field, and we had to be able to flip open a pocket knife one-handed.  If not, we weren’t allowed to walk to kindergarten without him.  He tried his best to come to every one of my swim meets and would whistle so loud I could hear him under water.      

As I got older and I started getting interested in things he couldn’t understand--like Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and Spanish — the unspoken rule was he was not the “go-to” guy for homework help.  When it came to boys, if we didn’t talk about it then the problem didn’t exist.  As long as they didn’t call the house or come over, he wouldn’t have to give the “dad speech” or pace the house waiting for me to get home.  We both preferred it that way.

While this may sound a tad odd, the best way my dad and I related to each other, and still do, is on the pyro field.  Since the 1980s, my dad has been a volunteer performer for an airshow act called The Tora Bomb Squad.  He travels the country shooting off carpet bombs and walls of fire while Japanese Zeros, B-2 Bombers, and A-10s zoom overhead. 

My recurring dream

“Oh crap.  Stephen, can you go see who’s at the counter?  I have to get make these changes before the pages gets sent off to the printers,” I bellow from my desk. I know customers always come first, but if I don’t meet this deadline, my publisher is going to kill me.

It’s another humid day in Baltimore, so I have the windows open to keep them from fogging up.  It helps regulate the room but it does nothing to help my already messy office. The breeze off the Chesapeake has sent a few rough drafts on the floor and a post-it note out into the lobby. I can see it dancing its way towards the bookshelves housing a collection of local authors that I’ve published.

I can hear Stephen greet the customer in the lobby. I try desperately to tune out his conversation and focus on the page in front of me, but four words from the stranger grab my attention instantly. “Is my Hannah here?”

“Uh, just a sec,” Stephen says hesitantly. “Hannah, I think you’re gonna want to come out here.  She’s looking for you.” My curiosity instantly piques. I know those words, but I don’t know that voice.