by Bert Carson
I began to follow him into the house when I realized that Bobby wasn’t behind me. “Just a second, Mr. Martin,” I said as I stepped back on the porch, where I saw Bobby, on all fours, in the back corner of the porch. He was talking in a low voice. I asked, “What are you doing, Bobby?”
“I’m playing with the dog, Daddy. You go ahead and look. If the house is all right with you, it’s fine by me.”
As I joined Mr. Martin in the dining room, which overlooked the river, I recalled how many times Bobby had asked Kathy and me if he could have a dog. We had turned him down every time. Even though I was at FortRucker for years, the possibility of moving was always there and we didn’t want Bobby to get attached to a dog and then have to leave it. Though he understood, we knew that he was deeply disappointed.
The house was large, tastefully furnished, and spotlessly clean, with four large bedrooms and three baths, upstairs, and a large living room, and combination kitchen and dining room, and a half bath downstairs. When we finished the tour I said, “Mr. Martin, you have a fine house here. I was right the first time, we’ll take it.”
We sat down at the dining room table and he went over the details of the lease. When he finished, I reached in my back pocket, pulled out my checkbook, and wrote a check for the first year’s lease payment. Mr. Martin, obviously surprised, said, “Mr. Edwards, that’s not necessary, two months in advance, is fine with me.”
“I’d rather do it this way, Mr. Martin, and then I won’t be concerned about forgetting.” He took the check, tucked it into his wallet and said, “Well, that’s that, Mr. Edwards. We shook hands and walked out onto the porch where we saw Bobby, still playing with the dog. For the first time, I could see the animal. He was solid black except for a snow-white circle around his left eye. A mixed breed, about thirty or thirty-five pounds, I judged. I also guessed that somewhere in his pedigree there was a German Shepherd, since he looked like a small version of the famous breed.
Without taking his eyes off the dog, Bobby asked, “Is this your dog, Mr. Martin?”
“No, Bobby, he just showed up this morning and I couldn’t make him leave. I thought I’d drop him by the pound on my way home.”
“What will they do with him, Mr. Martin?”
“Oh, I guess they’ll keep him for a while to see if his owner shows up.”
“What if his owner doesn’t show up?”
“Well, I guess they’ll put him to sleep.”
The dog followed the conversation by looking from Bobby to Mr. Martin. When he heard Mr. Martin’s last statement, he raised his right paw and put it on Bobby’s leg.
Bobby looked up at me. I felt his pain like a hand clutching my own heart. I turned to Mr. Martin and said, “Why don’t you just leave him with us. We’ll put up some posters and see if we can find his owner.”
Mr. Martin, still in a slight daze at receiving a year’s rent in advance and unaware of the wordless communication that had just passed between Bobby and me, said, “That’s fine by me, Mr. Edwards. In fact, I’d consider it a favor. My wife would be upset if she knew I’d had a dog in the car. Well, you and Bobby enjoy your time in Missoula.” We shook hands again and he was gone.
The dog, who had been sitting beside Bobby throughout the conversation, jumped up, ran to me and barked. I bent down and petted him, knowing as I did that Bobby had his first dog. The next morning, because I had told Mr. Martin we would, Bobby and I put up a dozen posters on telephone poles in the area. Two days later, I noticed they had all disappeared.
That afternoon the three of us unloaded the U-Haul trailer. In a couple of hours we had our pictures up, our books in the bookcases, kitchenware stowed in the kitchen and our beds made. I turned in the trailer to a nearby U-haul dealer while Bobby and the dog walked to the corner grocery and bought a leash, collar, dog food, and dog dishes. When I got back to the house, I noted the purchases and said, “Well, it looks like the dog is permanent party.”
“I sure hope so, Daddy.”
“Are you willing to take care of him, Son?”
“Yes, Sir, you better believe it.”
“Then, if nobody claims him, he’s yours.”
The dog barked.
“What are you going to call him?”
“I don’t know, Daddy. Do you have an idea?”
“As a matter of fact I do. On my second tour in Vietnam, my company was located next to a scout dog company. There were about twenty scout dogs and handlers in the unit. One day the company clerk found a puppy, a local puppy, wandering around the company area. He took him in, the way you’re taking that dog in. The First Sergeant of the unit ran a tight ship. His message to anyone who would listen was they should always be flexible, meaning, they should pay attention and be aware of what was going on all the time. To stay on the good side of the First Sergeant, the company clerk named the puppy, Flexible, before he told the First Sergeant about him. Anyway, it worked, and the First Sergeant let the dog stay, even though it violated several of his own rules. Eventually, Flexible became the scout dog mascot. So, what do you think of Flexible as a name for your dog?”
Before Bobby could answer, the dog barked sharply and began wagging his tail.
Bobby laughed. “He likes it, Daddy. Flexible it is.”
“Now that you’ve got a dog, found a house, and walked all over the campus with Janet, how would you and Flexible like to play a little football?”
In seconds, the three of us were pounding across the footbridge, heading for the practice field. Flexible, who seemed to know where we were going, was in the lead, with Bobby a few yards behind. I was a close third and gaining rapidly when we got to the field. There, I threw a perfect tackle that brought Bobby to the ground. Flexible, barking loudly ran around us in a tight circle, occasionally darting in to lick one or the other of us in the face. We rolled and played for a few minutes before Bobby and I began a serious practice session. Neither of us noticed the lone figure standing in the trees that bordered the edge of the field. The man watched intently, moving farther into the shadow of the oaks and leaned against the trunk of the largest tree. In that position, he was nearly invisible from the field.
It was a week before I found out he had been there and that he watched for the entire two hours that we practiced. He saw the consistent catches that Bobby made. He watched as I easily made forty-yard punts and field goals and he saw me end our practice with a fifty-yard field goal. Before the ball stopped rolling, Flexible, long overdue for some attention, pounced on it, grabbed it by the laces and ran for the footbridge.
I laughed, “That’s just as well. The old man has had enough for today.”
Bobby, still panting from the workout, said, “I thought you would never admit it. Let’s go and get the dog and find some food before my stomach collapses.”
We found Flexible lying on the front porch with the ball resting between his front paws. Bobby laughed, scooping up both the dog and the football. “Come on, Flex, let’s find some food.”
After dinner, I picked up a novel and Bobby and Flexible went upstairs. An hour or so later I put down the book, turned out the lights and went upstairs. I stuck my head in Bobby’s room and saw him and Flexible, both sound asleep. Bobby had his arm around the dog and both of them were snoring softly. I smiled and turned off the light.
Chapter 11
“I’m sure glad we came early,” I said, as we began our second week in Missoula. “I would have never guessed there was so much to do just to enroll in college.”
Bobby looked up from his bowl of cereal and through a mouthful of cornflakes, said, “Well, Daddy, you have to admit most of it doesn’t have to do with school. It seems like most of what we’ve done in the past few days has been about becoming residents of Montana.”
“I guess you’re right…but that doesn’t mean you can talk with your mouth full, Young Man.” We both laughed and I asked, “What do you have on your agenda this morning?”
“Nothing much, I’ve already got my schedule lined
up, I’ve found all the classes, and even met some of the professors. I guess we’ve done all the other jobs, like the Post Office, and driver’s license, and stuff like that. Football practice starts Thursday for walk-ons, so I have the next two days off. Did you have something in mind?”
“I’m in the same boat, except I don’t have anything to do until classes start in nine weeks. Why don’t we spend a little time making sure you can still catch a football, and maybe take in some of the country today and tomorrow?”
Bobby hesitated, then said, “The football part sounds great, if we can do it in the mornings, but this afternoon Janet wants to take me sightseeing.”
“Great. What time is she going to pick us up?” The startled look on Bobby’s face disappeared when I laughed and Flexible barked.
We spent the morning in a hard practice session. When we finished, I told Bobby that he could still catch the ball fairly well for someone his age.
“Yeah, and your fifty-two yard field goal would have never made if the wind hadn’t caught it.”
I grinned, stuck my forefinger in my mouth, and then raised it into the still Montana morning, “There’s no wind. It was pure skill.”
I picked up the football and Flexible retrieved his Frisbee, a concession we had made to keep him from grabbing the football and running to the house, and the three of us headed for the footbridge and home.
********
With time on my hands, I decided to go to the airport and meet Waylon Light, the owner and manager of Minuteman Aviation, the primary Fixed Base Operator at MissoulaInternationalAirport. In his advertisement in Pilot’s Magazine, I noted that two of his rental planes were Cessna 182’s, my favorite airplane.
I found Waylon in one of the hangers checking the progress of a Cessna 152 engine overhaul. I wouldn’t try to estimate his age. Like many pilots I’ve known, he’s ageless, tanned, fit and wiry, with those tiny lines around the eyes that seem to be standard equipment for pilots.
He knew that I was standing behind him, but he didn’t interrupt his conversation with the mechanic until it was complete. The ability to maintain focus is another shared trait of pilots. Without it, they don’t last.
When he finished talking to the mechanic, Waylon turned to me. He knew I was a pilot, though we’d never laid eyes on each other. He knew it the same way I would have known he was one, no matter where we met. He grinned, stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Waylon Light and you are….”
I grinned back at him and said, “I’m Josh Edwards.”
“What do you fly Josh?”
“Mostly Hueys, but I can’t afford to rent or own one.”
He laughed, “Who can?” Then he asked about my fixed wing certifications. I told him that I was checked out in Cessna 150s, 152s, 172s, 182s, Birddogs, Otters and Mohawks. Then I added that it had been a while since I’d flown anything other than a Huey. He asked if I had my fixed wing logbook and I said, “I just happen to have it with me.” I opened the slim flight case that I was carrying, found the logbook and handed it to him.
He gave it a rapid but through examination and said, “Well come on Josh, let’s fly.”
I tried one feeble protest, “I didn’t intend to fly today. I just wanted to meet you and check out your rental planes.”
“Good,” he called over his shoulder, “You’ve met me now let’s go and check out one of my rental planes.” I had to run to catch up with him. Waylon walked at double-time. Outside the hanger, he pointed to a spotless, sky blue and white, Cessna 182, and said, “That’s Bluebird.” Without breaking stride he continued, “Josh, you’ve got a lot of time on 182’s but nothing in the last ten months. What happened?
If I’d had time to think about an answer I would have probably not been so abrupt. He didn’t give me any time. I said, “No, I didn’t get tired of airplanes. My wife died and I’ve had other things on my mind.”
He didn’t slow down or miss a step. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife. However, not flying won’t change anything.” At that point, we were at the airplane. He said, “The checklist is on a clipboard on the pilot’s seat. Start running it while I get her untied and pull the chocks.”
I opened the door, found the clipboard and began going through the checklist. Though I was aware that Waylon had untied the plane, moved the chocks away from the tires and then stepped away and was watching me, I didn’t look at him or say anything until I finished the exterior check. I’d almost forgotten how important flying was to me.
As soon as I checked the last item, Waylon opened the copilot’s door and slid in. In the pilot’s seat, I began the interior checklist. When it was time to start the engine he said, “Bluebird is N5523T, the active runway is 29, and elevation is 3,205 feet, contact ground on 121.9 and the tower on 118.4.”
I looked around the aircraft, opened my window and shouted, “Clear!” Then I cranked the engine, and completed the checklist. I checked the radio and noted the frequency was already set to 121.9. I picked up the mike, keyed it and said, “Missoula ground, Cessna November 5523 Tango ready to taxi from Minuteman.”
The response was immediate, “November 5523 Tango, you are clear to taxi to runway 29. There is no traffic reported in the area; hold and report before taking the active.”
An hour later, after flying almost all the way to Kalispell, I touched down back at Missoula. Waylon spoke for the first time since we’d taken off. “Josh, don’t ever forget how much you love to fly. No matter what happens in your life, never forget the things that make your heart sing.”
A tear ran down my cheek, and Waylon said, “I have the airplane.” He taxied to the hanger and I helped him tie Bluebird down. As we walked to the office I asked, “How much do I owe you?”
He laughed, “That one was free, just a reminder. Now that you’ve remembered, I’ll start making the big bucks.”
That was the beginning of a friendship that has meant more to me than I’ll ever be able to put into words. Of course, with Waylon I don’t have to worry about saying it. He knows.
********
“How was practice?” I asked, as soon as Bobby came through the door.
Grinning from ear-to-ear, Bobby replied, “It couldn’t have been better. I caught everything. I couldn’t drop one. It looks like I have a good chance to make the team. If all the practices go like this one, I can’t miss. I even ran the forty in four-two.”
“That’s great. I knew you would do it. Did you get a chance to talk to the coach?”
“Only for a second or two,” Bobby said, as he started up the stairs with Flexible hard on his heels. He stopped so quickly the dog almost ran into him. “I’m glad you asked about the coach. I’d almost forgotten. He wants to meet you.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, he just said that he had seen us practicing and he’d like to meet you.”
Bobby started up the stairs again. This time Flexible stayed on the step he’d abruptly stopped on seconds before, and watched Bobby carefully. It was a smart move. Bobby only took a single step then stopped again, “Oh yeah, he asked me how old you were. When I told him you just turned forty-four, I’m not sure he believed me.” Bobby resumed the trip up the stairs, with Flexible in cautious pursuit. He paused at the top to shout down, “After he saw you on the practice field, he probably thought you were a lot older.” He ran into his room, neatly dodging the football that I threw up the stairwell.
Practice started at noon the next day. I walked over to the practice field at one. The players and coaches were all deeply involved in the session. I was surprised when the man who was obviously the head coach, stopped talking to one of the trainers as soon as he saw me, and began striding intently toward me. ‘Maybe he thinks I’m someone else,’ I thought.
However, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Coach Jenkins came to me and stuck out a big calloused hand. “You must be Bobby’s father. I’m Brent Jenkins.”
I shook his hand, “Josh Edwards,” I said. “How did you know that I�
�m Bobby’s Dad?”
“I saw you two on the practice field one afternoon last week. I watched from a distance and I thought you were both new kids that I hadn’t met. It’s hard for a coach not to notice someone who can kick a fifty-yard field goal. Did you play football in college or the pros?”
I laughed, “No, in fact I didn’t go to college. That’s one reason I’m here with Bobby. I just retired from the Army and I figured it would be a good time to go to school and get to know my son better before he heads out into the world.”
Coach Jenkins almost shouted, “You mean you didn’t play college football? Where did you learn to kick like that? High School?”
I laughed, “No, I didn’t play high school football either. Just a little sandlot football when I was a kid. I started playing football about four years ago when Bobby first went out for his high school team and didn’t make it. I told him I would help him if he was serious. We decided it would be best to work on kicking, since there is always a need for a good kicker. We got some books and videos and we studied them. Then we began practicing. Bobby put on some weight and gained speed and agility. Before we knew it, he had turned into a good wide receiver. He gave up kicking, but I was hooked on it. I’ve been doing it two or three times a week since then. It helps my other athletic interests.”
“What are those, Josh?”
“I run almost every day and I do some biking.”
“How far do you run and bike?” His curiosity was turning the meeting into an interrogation.
“Ideally, I like to run at least fifty miles a week and bike a hundred.”
“That explains the leg strength. You are a natural kicker who just happens to work at it. Which brings me to the reason I wanted to meet you, I need a favor if you’ll consider it.”