Twisted Christmas Memories

My dad is pretty awesome.  This is just a fact.


This is a fact for a lot of reasons.  Reasons far more important that the one I list below, but you know…whatever.

Dad used to fly jets.  For me, it was kinda like having a rock star for a dad.


When I was little, we went on family vacation at the beach, and he had to work, so he buzzed the beach making all the other families pee their pants while we cackled and thought, “That’s MY DAD!!!!”


Dad flew in the Rose Festival Air Show.  I remember being in the crowd and listening to them oooh and ahhh.  You could hear the jet, but couldn’t see it.  Cause he flew at the crowd straight out of the sun.

It was amazing.

He was the star of the show and for a few years the Blue Angels didn’t return since they’d been out-flown by…. that’s right–my dad.

f 15

This is an F-15 Eagle.  He flew that.  And an F-4 Phantom and a bunch of other jets.


When I was little he took my whole class on a special field trip to sit in the jets because one kid didn’t believe me when I said my dad flew them.  I don’t blame the kid.  We were working the cross walk in 4th or 5th grade, and his dad was a garbage man.  Who wants to hear that the chubby little girl whose nose was usually in a book had a fighter pilot for a dad?  But we went to the Air Base as a class.  And we all got to sit in one and see the helmets and watch them land and take off and blow our hearing.  My sister got to come too, even though she was in another class, and we didn’t have to go back to school with the rest of the kids, because my dad was smart enough to know staying at the Air Base with the coolest dad on the planet would be the most amazing end to the day.  He likely took us out to lunch.  Because my sister was there, and she only ate Taco Bell, we probably went there.


Because he was a fighter pilot, he worked crazy hours.

Like Christmas Eve.

He pulled what we called “alert” looking for unwelcome air presence over Portland and surrounding areas.  If there was some nefarious flier of planes that shouldn’t be there, Dad would ask them to identify themselves and maybe escort them to land.  (I guess, I was little and didn’t really care what he did for actual work.)  Most of the time, I think”alert” might have been an awesome nap and some TV without kids to whine about watching A-Team.

So, every Christmas Eve he worked, he’d come and say, “Kids, I have bad news.  Tonight there was an unidentified presence.  We asked and asked them to identify themselves, but they wouldn’t.  So we had to shoot them down.  



As the selfish little brats we were, with little understanding of what that meant (after all Dad had to eject once, and he was fine), we were like “Whateves, give me another cookie.”



Until he revealed the horrific truth….



Daddy, shot down Santa.  Santa Claus.  Bringer of presents.  Eater of cookies.  Bringer of presents.  PRESENTS.  



Then he’d cackle at the horror on our faces and proceed to eat whatever scrumptious dish Mumma had made for Christmas Eve.


It’s possible this is the reason my sense of humor is sick, twisted, and likely to laugh at someone who trips, falls down, and breaks a leg.  I’m my father’s daughter, so I’ll laugh as I call for help.  I’ll even bring you food later because that’s how we roll.  I’ll laugh first.  And it’s all my dad’s fault.



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