Fly Away . . .

Who names their daughter ‘Bunny?’” Maybe it’s a nickname.

I never actually met her.

She married my father.

I only know of her existence because it was she who notified my mother of my dad’s death . . .

I was 10 at the time. The last time I had seen him was too far back to remember.

I do remember crawling down into the pump room where we lived when I was six, finding a picture -- just a head shot of someone I didn’t recognize. Upon showing it to my mom, she says, “That’s your dad . . .”

There was some discussion as to whether we should go to the funeral -- burial service, actually. It’s a long drive from Michigan to West Virginia. My mom had just gotten remarried.

Don -- her new husband -- doesn’t think it would be appropriate for him to show up as Ed Byrd’s replacement, but he's willing to chauffeur us back and forth.

For the first time I can remember, my two older brothers and I get to meet our uncles from the Byrd side: Charles, Richard and Ronnie. Our two aunts -- Rosemary and Annandale, don’t make it. Neither does Ed’s mother, Mom Byrd, as our unknown grandmother was later known. Interestingly enough, neither does Bunny . . .

It’s closed casket.

Among themselves, Ed’s brothers question whether it’s his remains in the box. They try to jimmy the lid, but are chased away by the in-loco funeral director who took possession of the casket at the airport.

Kind words were spoken by Ben Leach -- a fellow seminarian of my dad’s when they both went to the school near Washington, D.C.

The service is brief. There are less than a dozen people in attendance -- including the funeral director and whoever is in the box.

After we make our way down the steep slope leading up to the overgrown private cemetery, Ben takes us three boys aside to tell us what happened that occasioned our birth-dad’s death.

* * *

We’d heard about Ben. Mom used to tell us stories.

Ben and Ed were both studying to be ministers back in the early '40s.

Jobs were scarce.

They both found work driving cabs.

Gas was rationed.

Tires were rationed.

The lack of either could shut one down for weeks at a time.

Mom and Ed have been married less than a year.

One day, Dad comes home as upset as she’s ever seen him. He’s pacing -- talking mainly to himself.

“He took 'em! . . . I can’t believe he would do such a thing!”

“Do what?” Mom is deeply concerned.

“My gas rations!”

“Who took them?”

“How could he do such a thing?!”

“Who?”

“Ben!

"He must've taken them when I was in the shower.”

“You mean at the college?”

“Yeah, right after we went swimming in the pool there.”

“That doesn’t sound like Ben.”

“He’s the only one who knows my combination . . .”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Anyone who’d steal from his best friend would just as soon lie about it,” my dad says.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll think of something! . . .”

He does.

The next morning, Mom notices a tire in the back of the closet.

“What’s this?”

“I got a good deal on a spare. My tires are getting kinda bald.”

A knock on the door terminates this exchange.

“I’ll get it,” he says.

It’s Ben. He’s in a heightened state of anxiety.

“You won’t believe this! Someone took one of my tires! -- right off the front of my car! Lucky I had a spare, or I wouldn't have been able to even drive over here. Who would do such a thing?! If I didn’t have that spare, I’d be so SOL -- Oh, sorry ma’am" -- this last, a nod to my mom being present.

“Gee, that’s tough,” Dad says. The expression on Mom’s face takes on a knowing look.

“Someone has it out for me, that’s all I can say. They’re not gonna get away with it if they try it again.”

He then proceeds to tell my dad what he plans to do to protect himself from further theft.

“If you hear of anything, let me know.”

With that, Ben is out the door.

“Good deal, huh?” Mom says, before going back into the bedroom.

The following morning she’s somewhat surprised to find two more tires in the closet . . .

“Musta got a group discount,” she deadpans en route to the bathroom. “I gotta tell you -- I’m not happy about this!”

“Well, I’m not happy trying to drive without gas.”

As if on cue, the door knocking begins again, this time with emphasis . . .

“They did it again!!!” Ben all but screams. “This time the whole rear end is up on blocks!”

“No kidding,” is all my dad says. “That’s not very neighborly.”

“What am I supposed to do? It’s almost as if they knew where the traps were.”

“I guess you’ll have time to work on that term paper that’s due next week.”

“Very funny.”

The next morning a fourth tire joins its friends.

Mom says, “I want these tires out of here -- today. You may think this is the way to get even. In my book it’s out-and-out stealing and I won’t be part of it!”

“OK. Right after-- ”

Knock, knock, knock --

“I’ll get that,” my dad says with a grin.

* * *

That’s how we know Ben . . .

Now, a denominational conference president, Ben takes us aside. As we sit in the shade of a tree a few hundred feet from the hole in the ground that has yet to be filled, Ben makes himself comfortable.

“Your dad was a good man.” (He must not’ve discovered who took his tires!)

“I thought maybe I could fill you in on a few details. Then, if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them as best I can.”

Having heard about his alleged participation in the gas rations caper, the three of us are prepared to take whatever he says with a grain of salt.

“As you know, your dad loved airplanes. He even had one when we were back in seminary together.”

That part we knew to be true. Mom used to reminisce about Dad TP’ing the whole campus on one occasion.

Or the time, during WWII when he flew back to West Virginia for a visit and clipped power lines while flying back to Kite’s Run, where he grew up, causing an unscheduled blackout. Folks there thought for sure the Germans were coming!

On more than one occasion, he landed in the middle of a two-lane highway almost out of gas. He taxied up to a gas station, put regular gas in instead of airplane fuel. Of course he buzzed the road a couple of times to clear traffic.

One time the road happened to go under a bridge. He managed to stop the plane’s forward motion just inches before the bridge would have shorn off one or both wings.

He landed in a cow pasture on more than one occasion. He would routinely hop high-tension wires from one tower to the next when he was lost in dense fog, knowing they would eventually lead to some town with an airport.

So yes, we knew he liked flying and owned airplanes. One of the few pictures I remember is of him with a Balsa wood plane. It had a 14-foot wingspan. He built it from scratch . . .

“Well,” Ben says, “he got a good deal on a 17-passenger, twin-engine plane that had been involved in a belly landing. He planned to ferry passengers from Mexico across the border is what I heard,” he said -- leaving us to wonder why anyone would want to do that. I suppose at $1,000 a head -- $15,000 per flight -- might have a certain appeal.

"He and a friend, Joe Baliki -- a pilot for United Airlines with more than 50,000 flying hours under his belt -- were driven to where the plane was hangered," ostensibly to inspect the repairs. The fact that the driver then turned around and drove away probably says nothing about their actual intentions . . .

"The plane was not flight certified yet, but with all the repairs done, that was just formality. Ed and Joe climbed in and fired up the engines. They radioed the tower that they were just going to inspect the repairs, but needed to do a couple of touch and go’s for a thorough check."

Ben’s version says they took off, circled the airport and landed again, but during that time, a sandstorm was approaching. Caught in a crosswind, the plane bounced hard when it hit the runway. Baliki had to bank hard to the left to keep from crashing -- banking directly into the storm. According to Ben, the antenna, which was on the underside of the fuselage, snapped off on the bounce, destroying the plane’s ability to transmit.

Interestingly enough, the FAA report simply states the plane made an illegal takeoff from California, flying towards Arizona, where Ed and Bunny lived.

At the time, we didn’t have the FAA report to contest Ben’s story.

He goes on to say they saw a field, after flying a hundred miles or so. It was getting dark. It had a tower. They buzzed the field and radioed three times that they were experiencing an emergency and wanted to land -- the FAA report later verified this -- after that, they gave up, never seeing two strips of blue lights come on.

The report made no mention of the lights turning on.

They flew northeast.

Visibility was clear, but without a moon, the only things that showed up were stars above and things below that were artificially lit. Baliki headed for the lowest part of the pass through the mountain range they’d have to cross to make it to their destination.

Unfortunately, they were about 100 feet to the left of where they thought they were. Had they been 100 feet to the right, they likely would have made it safely home.

As it was, they slammed directly into the side of the mountain.

The phrase “crashed and burned” is not a metaphor. Both bodies were badly charred.

Ed Byrd’s half-burnt wallet was found in the back pocket of the body in the copilot’s seat. His brothers questioned whether that was, indeed him.

Apparently he was being hounded by several creditors.

Charles, Richard and Ronnie thought maybe Ed was the one who drove the station wagon back. A third party, whoever it was, flew with Joe.

That certainly would have nicely ended Ed’s credit problems.

My oldest brother, Bud, claims Ed Byrd was sighted at least three times subsequent to the crash. But then, Bud tends to err on the side of hyperbole . . .

According to the FAA, both men were identified through dental records.

* * *

I have vague memories of my dad letting each of us three boys drive. I remember brother Ron standing on the seat so he could look over the dashboard. After dad stepped on the gas, Ronnie -- as he was called back then -- managed to put the car in reverse, backing us into a tree. He was five. I was three. That killed my driving ambitions for the day . . .

I remember -- or think I do -- Dad coming home with banana crème “pies” -- perhaps the forerunner of Hostess Twinkies -- same light cake wrapping around light creamy filling, only more on the order of a circle of cake folded in half. He would sometimes give us pennies if he had them, or horse around with us on the living room floor.

That’s about it.

Still, it feels weird -- knowing your biological dad is dead -- at 47.

We brothers sing as a trio at his grave site. A picture from that service showed three very skinny, serious-looking boys.

* * *

Much of what I know of Ed Byrd comes from talking with his brothers and our cousins.

Apparently Ed Byrd and Mom split up over a 16-year-old girl.

My dad was a minister. In that capacity he was the de facto youth director. Two kids in his congregation -- a brother and sister -- ages 15 and 16, lived alone with their mom. According to the daughter, it was not a good situation.

After several “counseling” sessions, my dad apparently agreed with her.

My mom first heard of it when a concerned church lady asked her, “Do you know where your husband is?” -- then proceeded to give her directions to this girl’s house.

House calls were not that uncommon for doctors in the early 50s. The same applied to pastors. What was unusual were house calls with teenage girls whose moms were still at work.

My mom drove by. She IDed his car, but didn’t stop.

When my dad got home, according to my mom, she confronted him. He stood his ground. He was a minister doing God’s work. If she couldn’t handle it, too bad.

She countered that if he couldn’t see his way clear to not counsel female minors without their parents or some other adult present, that was a deal breaker.

My older brother, Ron, recalls thinking: if she could get rid of him that easily, what are my chances?!

According to our uncles, Ed drove this girl all the way from Michigan to California -- where she immediately took up with a surfer dude.

My dad was so incensed, he drove all the way to West Virginia, ostensibly to get a gun, to then drive all the way back to California to dispatch the girl’s new boyfriend.

His brothers managed to talk him out of it -- too late to patch things up with Mom, his congregation, or the denomination that he previously worked for . . .

* * *

Since then, I’ve had occasion to get to know his brothers and sisters.

If they, or their kids, are any indication of what Ed Byrd, my biological dad, was like, I think I would have liked him . . .