My mom and I have always been effortlessly close. I guess that’s what happens when your personalities align. We both have night-owl tendencies and are self-proclaimed party girls. I get my easygoing disposition from her, although when you really get to know us, you’ll realize we’re also very particular. We have the same smile and the same mannerisms, so people are always telling us we look alike.
My dad and I, well, we’ve always had a good relationship. He was more of a disciplinarian (except when it came to school — my mom was downright scary if I brought home anything less than a B), so I was more buttoned-up around him. Disappointing dad never felt good. Maybe because he’s good at everything. He always knows the answers on Jeopardy! Fixes every car he’s ever owned. Literally built our house alongside my grandfather. Makes people feel welcome. Gets a laugh when he tells a joke.
But as a teenager, those just weren’t the things I was interested in. My love of music and sports come from my mom. She taught me to apply makeup and wear sunscreen and dress to feel confident. Sometimes I think maybe I should have sat next to my dad in the garage and learned to fix a car or properly till the garden, but then I remember that the older I get, the more our interests naturally align. The older I get, the more I have in common with my dad.
He gave me my first sip of good bourbon (Woodford Reserve forever) on an emotional afternoon before flying to Italy for my college study-abroad program. Now we readily discuss our favorite whiskeys and always bring bottles to share when we come together. He is an incredible cook — I learn a new technique every time I join him in the kitchen. We’re always sending each other the successful recipes we made from NYT Cooking.
But the thing that makes me feel closest to my dad isn’t a hobby we share, but rather one that he has shared with me.
My dad got his pilot’s license in his early 20s — in fact, his official “solo day” was 50 years ago this summer. Growing up, I knew my dad flew small planes as a hobby, but it seemed like a distant legend, something I never saw firsthand because he gave it up when he had kids.
But in his retirement years, my dad has picked up right where he left off. He bought into a Cessna 172 Skyhawk with a few other guys and parks it in a hangar at the local airport, about 15 minutes from my parents’ house. Seeing how much joy that beautiful little plane brings him fills me with joy. Since he’s been a part owner, he’s made improvements to the hangar and the plane, reupholstering it with sumptuous Scottish leather. He even sewed the cover that keeps it warm and ready to fly in the winter months.
Dad Didn’t Need a Taskrabbit
My dad fixed his car engine with a Pepsi can, I complain to Claude about my leaky faucet. What happened to men?I was scared out of my goddamn mind the first time I went up with him. I had heard stories of how little planes are dangerous. I’d never really been in anything smaller than a regional commuter jet. But after takeoff, the fear melted away. It’s the most peaceful experience, sitting side-by-side, looking at the world below. Watching my dad operate that plane makes me swell with pride: It is just an unbelievable skill that, if it wasn’t so expensive to attain today, I would love to learn.
Though it’s often too hot to fly in the summer in Ohio, it’s become a ritual to take out the plane when I visit for the holidays. We head out around 10 a.m. I watch as my dad does all of the pre-flight checks, helping him with whatever I can, like plugging in the headsets (mostly I just follow on his heels, asking every question I can think of). Then we take to the skies, enjoying some local landmarks down below. When we start to get hungry, we head for the Carroll County Airport, which features a little diner that is perfect for lunch.
The diner has two parking lots: one for cars and one for airplanes. I’ve never felt cooler in my life than when we park the plane and walk into the restaurant. I might order an omelet with onion rings or a plate of wings, maybe my dad orders a breakfast hash. We always get a couple slices of their homemade pie to go — to share with mom and whoever else is passing through that week. It has become one of my favorite yearly rituals. One that my dad and I can call our own.
When my dad got his license 50 years ago, he bought himself a pair of Ray-Ban aviators. I remember seeing them on his workbench when I was in college and wanting them so badly. Of course back then, it was because I thought they looked cool. I didn’t really understand what they meant to him, didn’t understand the absolute passion and guts it takes to fly an airplane.
Last Christmas, he came downstairs holding the case and gifted me the Ray-Bans. He’d had them cleaned and lightly restored to their original brilliance. “It’s time to pass them on,” he said. I wore them on our flight the next day and wear them with pride now, not as a fashion statement (although they do look fucking cool) but as an homage to him.
It’s no secret that you have to grow up a little to understand your parents better. For me and my dad, all we had to do was go up 10,000 feet.
More Like This
This article appeared in an InsideHook newsletter. Sign up for free to get more on travel, wellness, style, drinking, and culture..