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. 

Growing up, I found this to be completely normal.  My dad ran away on weekends to set jet fuel on fire and blow up watermelon crates, leaving crater-size holes in the grass.  Didn’t everybody’s dad?  When I asked, the kids often ran away in fear, and there was more than one parent-teacher conference when I told my elementary school teachers that my dad “blew up airports” for fun.

As far back as I can remember, whenever there was an airshow near by I was out there right beside my dad.  It was a family affair.  A six year old can’t really help that much when it comes to cutting detcord, stripping wires, or filling gas bags, but I would fetch the guys bottles of water, extra tape, and snacks.  I would listen closely as they taught me “the cheerleader arms” to remember the difference between an F-15, an F-16, and an F-18 tail.  I remember thinking this was the only way anyone should spend a summer.

As soon as it became “legal” for me to be out there, I started paying my dues as a grunt hauling gasbags and cord across the pyro field in the blazing summer sun.  I am second generation Tora and I wear that badge with pride.  It is hard, dirty work, but anyone out there will tell you it really is the most legal fun you can have with your clothes on.  While working airshows has given me some great experiences and some great stories of my own to share, the best thing it gave me is a connection to my dad.  I understand him more now that I’ve become more involved in this part of his world.  I now understand that he gets more out of working shows then just a weekend out of the house, a cool farmer’s tan, and a few new stories to share.    

Over the years, my dad has risen up the ranks of Tora and become “number 2 in command.”  He welcomes the responsibilities of quoting and booking shows, signing up the crew, ordering supplies, and keeping track of the millions of other details involved in airshows.  It not only gives him something to look forward to (who wouldn’t look forward to a weekend filled with high explosives and free beer?) but it gives him something else to do when the rest of his life becomes too much for any 58-year-old man to handle. Whenever he gets burnt out thinking about finances or worrying about my mom’s next oncology appointment, airshows become another escape for my dad.  Sure, he escapes when he drags his golf clubs to the driving range or pulls out his 35-year-old Gibson acoustic, but he doesn’t get lost in those things quite like he does when he’s focusing on the minute details of his next show.  Even when life is throwing tough stuff at him, I still see the joy on my dad’s face when he and I pull out the calendar and he starts telling me about the next show. 

Airshows have become an increased topic of conversation for us this year.  Dad isn’t handling the idea of me graduating very well.  He knows it means I’ll be looking for a job, preferably out of state, and he isn’t really comfortable with that prospect.  Over the last few months, whenever our phone conversations go on too long about my future plans and job-hunts, he quickly switches to the latest show updates or starts telling me about a new video he saw on AirshowBuzz.com.  Airshows have become our safe word.

While my dad tries his best, he doesn’t understand a lot of things in my world.  He isn’t big into reading newspapers and won’t pick up any novel that isn’t a spy mystery.  He can’t relate to my desire to backpack through European countries or go skydiving.  But airshows are common ground.  I get the same tear in my eye he does at every show when we set off our 21-gun salute and our pilots fly a missing man formation.  I get the same adrenaline rush, the same butterflies, and the same goofy grin on my face he does right before show time.  I am my father’s daughter.  

I know the suspense is killing him while he waits for me to finalize my after-graduation plans, but building his airshow schedule guarantees that he’ll see me at least four weekends this summer.  I think he finds comfort in that.