X-Wing Dreams

 

X-Wing Dreams

I don’t know where it started. I always wanted to be a pilot or astronaut. When Star Wars was released, it was the best of both worlds. An X-Wing was a dream. I cannot remember when I got it. I think it was a birthday present, 1982. I was 8 years old, and a Star Wars geek. My brother and I had started collecting what we could. Our first items were two Chewbacca(s), the Tatooine Landspeeder, and a troop carrier. By 1982, we had gained a full-sized X-Wing for Eric, additional figures, and I had started collecting the new line from Kenner, the Micro Collection.

It was my favorite. Not only could the small Luke figure go into the cockpit, but it also had battle damage, where with a push of the button, the front of the X-Wing collapsed!

I was in my own world, playing with this thing! I would run up and down the sidewalk, acting out battles. Crash landings in the sandbox were perfect for any Dagobah scene. It was always involved in some way, with my play time. I was an introvert, and my imagination was my world. Entire movies could play out in my head, full dialogue and music included. I am sure I looked odd, playing by myself a lot, but it was just me and my way.

But still, Eric and I did tons together. Our upstairs hallway was often the scene of drawn-out battles, each of us at our own end, with our assorted heroes and villains. It didn’t matter the theme. Castle Grayskull and Snake Mountain were the hideouts of a compilation of Autobots, GI-Joes, Voltron and heroes of Eternia versus Skeletor and his minions, Decepticons, C.O.B.R.A. and WWF wrestlers.

One of the other things we often did together – get in trouble, and get caught. I have to tell the whole story here, or it won’t make any sense later. I need you to understand HOW MUCH this X-Wing fighter meant to me. So, we need to go to the morning of THE DAY.

Our neighbor, Fred Disbrow, was an avid hunter and trapper. It was a cloudy, cold day in late September or October. This part of the year, Fred had dug the usual pit in his backyard. Square in shape and about 1-2 feet deep, he had built a fire and was boiling and heating up these square small game traps. Now, I remember asking Fred why he had to heat them up, boil them and such. He said it cleaned them up really good and got rid of any scent, so that the animals he was trapping wouldn’t smell the traps.

We sat and watched him for a bit, keeping warm by the fire he made, and our pant knees getting soaked, from the cold, wet grass so we could toast our faces watching the traps heat up, and then he would put them in the boiling pot.

Now to an 8-year-old and 6-year-old, fire is fascinating. It is magical, it consumes. It heats things up, lights the darkness, and it makes things more interesting. Now, Fred had to run into the garage, about 30 yards from where we were. He told us not to touch anything, and left to go get more traps. Now, we weren’t alone. His oldest son, Shane, was there helping Fred and we pointed out that Fred had a stack of newspapers for the fire under the boil pot. We thought they would make HUGE paper airplanes, based on the size of the pages. So, we did. The paper was fairly thin and our planes were basic and floppy. A toss sent them to the ground, as they folded in on themselves. What would make this more fun? What could possibly make boring paper airplanes into something exciting, of X-Wing fighter battles and imaginary battles?

FIRE, OF COURSE!

I wondered how we could include the fire into this theme, and figured, if we caught the rear end of the planes on fire, we would have a few seconds of blazing battle-scarred glory, before having to stomp them out on the ground, or throw them underneath the boiling pot. We ran back and forth, along the brush line, in our backyard by the field, before the woods to the Grand River.

We did a couple each, Eric and I both, and planes and evidence were burnt up before Fred returned and sent us back along home.

My mom has an office. This office is where she often retired to work on accounting for Dr. Banwell's rental apartments, work on the sewing machine for clothes repairs, or laundry. The office was on the back of the house and had a wall-sized picture window. This window faced the back yard, out to the field. The same field her two boys were currently running back and forth, with burning paper airplanes, oblivious to any care or consequence.

When we entered the backdoor and paused by the office door to take our shoes off, the anger like a poisonous fog, rolled towards us from our mother’s glare.

As any boy in that situation knowing the gig is up, play stupid. Look dumb and say, “What?”

Silently pray to God that it was something else entirely, while you try and swallow your heartbeat back down and cool your face off.

“You. Know. WHAT….” Followed by deadly silence.

“We didn’t do…  How did… No one got burnt!”

“I don’t care what you thought you were doing, and thinking no one saw. I did and you are both grounded to your room, until your dad gets home.”

NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Not the dreaded, “until your dad gets home!”

It means waiting 2-3 more hours, imagining doom and consequence! For an introvert like me, 2-3 hours is a nausea-inducing eternity!

4pm. 5pm. 6pm. Dad’s home. Quiet murmuring in the kitchen. We hear dad’s footsteps come up the stairs. He goes past our room, and does nothing. THE TERROR CREEPS ON!!!

He walks back past our room, down the stairs. And we wait.

Mom calls us from the kitchen and tells us dad is waiting for us in the basement.

The BASEMENT? He’s never had us go to the BASEMENT for punishment! What fresh punishment from the depths of hell has it come to this time? We played with fire, so we go to the BASEMENT???

Keep in mind, Eric and I have already debated various punishments, while waiting in the bedroom. In the hour that dad has come home, we have not spoken a word to each other, only sad, panicked, puzzled looks. We walk the hallway to the stairs, to the basement. Dad says two words, “Sit down.”

Nowhere to sit but the floor facing him. Nowhere to run, as he blocks the only way to the stairwell. Sure, we could run to the back storage area, but there’s no way out but back the way you came.

Dad begins. No anger, no rage. Just that disappointment voiced in such a way it hurt that you let him down.

“So, your mom tells me that you boys were in something you know better than to do?”

A question? He’s attempting to illicit an open confession. I wait for Eric to break first. Neither of us speaks.

“Well, since you like lighting things on fire, and playing with fire so much. I am going to show you what fire can do.”

<gulp>

Dad reaches to his work bench and picks up a small propane torch. He lights it. Blue flame.

“You boys could have started the field on fire. You could have started a neighbor’s house on fire with that. More importantly, you could have started your clothes and yourself on fire. It’s not to be messed with and you know better. You want to see up close what fire does? It does this.”

We were 2 feet away from him. He was 6 foot tall above us. We could see nothing else but him.

From out of nowhere, his back pocket, magic, he summoned it through the air, I DON’T KNOW BUT WHY IS DAD HOLDING MY X-WING?????

I tried to stop with a flurry of words, excuses, promises! "DADIPROMISEIWONTTOUCHANOTHERFIREIWILLNEVERGOTOFREDSAGAINPLEASEITSMYFAVORITEDOOOOOOON’T!"

“Daniel, you’re the oldest, you especially knew better and you should have been keeping Eric out of trouble not leading into it.”

Holding one side of the fighter with pliers, he lowered the S-foils into the flame. The black cannon was first to quickly melt off. Black acrid-smelling smoke filled the air. He held it there. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. The foils themselves started to bubble and melt. There was no melt or droplets, the flame so hot the wings seemed to pull away from the flame and disappear. I held my breath. No tears. No screams. Just shock and loss. STOP THE MAAAAADDNESS!

He took it away from the flame, a half-melted mess. The propane torch shut off with a soft pop.

Most of it was still there. But the wings were ruined. It was half an X-Wing. The S-foils would never open again. It’s cannons and wings on the right side, gone in wispy black smoke. A Star Wars nightmare come true.

After a minute of silence. He put the torch back on the bench. He dropped the fighter into the garbage can under the stairs.

“Next time, it will be all of your action figures. Go to your room, dinner, then bed.” He didn’t apologize. He didn’t have to. I know what we did was wrong. I knew it the moment I hesitated and second-guessed myself, before putting the first paper airplane’s tail in the flames.

Dinner was quiet small talk about school, dad’s work, Kari’s dance recital, the kids in mom’s daycare. My brain was a fog of regret, sorrow, disbelief, and remembered X-Wing moments.

Eric and I debriefed each other, like we did every night, about the day, the moment, “Can you believe he did that? Did you know he had my X-Wing? Why didn’t he do one of your toys too?” Too many questions. Fitful sleep. I woke up and looked at the clock radio. 2:00am. Geesh! How am I going to sleep? Then questions came to mind.

Is it really gone? Did it all melt up, when he threw it away?

I figured I would try and sneak down to the basement and check.

 Home alarm systems were scarce and expensive in the early 80s. Our house had two. A creaky board in the hallway between our room and mom and dad’s room. It was opposite the direction I needed to go. But still, the second alarm, the top step to our stair case. It was the loudest of the two, and it was so sensitive that it would sometimes make the second step creaky too! So, I had to skip the first step, lightly touch the second step and by the third step I would be clear. I got out of bed, making sure Eric was asleep, and listening down the hallway for mom and dad. Nothing. Good.

Kari’s door was shut, so she wouldn’t notice either.

First step started creaking as I approached! The only option was over the stairway railing, and letting myself down, reverse chin-up, to the 3^rd step. Hard to do in Spiderman PJs, but worth the risk. Lowering myself to the stairs, I used my left foot to count the step edges. One-Two-Three. Then lightly letting myself down on the third, praying for silence.

Made it! Uh-oh. I have to come back the same way. It’s gonna be a pull-up to a chin up, to back over the rail. Who cares! Gotta check that X-Wing.

I made it back to the basement stairs, unlocked the latch and headed down. I didn’t want to turn the light on, so I made my way in the dark to the light over dad’s tool bench. Flipping it on, I saw the yellow trashcan was still under the steps AND THE BAG WAS STILL IN THERE!

I doubted it was still there. Dad probably made sure it was in the cans outside. As I peered over the edge of the can, I saw nothing but sawdust piled in. My heart sank, and yep, looks like he did. But still. I didn’t want to move the garbage can out, cause then he would know I looked for it. So I went back to the steps and looked between the open step boards, into the can at another angle.

THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS! IT’S STILL THERE!

In my 8-year-old brain I reached down thinking, “Careful, it could still be hot and then it would stick to your skin and melt to you.”

It was cool to the touch. I lifted it out of the can, thinking before I could see it, “The sawdust is probably all stuck to it.” But sure enough, it had cooled enough before dad tossed it, to be complete clean.

The right S-foils were a complete wreck. They would never open again. The cockpit and window were OK. The right side of the nose was scorched, a melted line up the side. But it would still open and collapse like it was supposed to.

Should I keep it? Would dad notice I took it back? Would I get in trouble for taking it back?

I had to. It was still my favorite toy. I tucked in into my PJ pant waistline, flipped off the light and covered my tracks back to the stairwell. It was difficult making, but I made the pull-up to chin-up and over the rail quietly. All the while making sure the X-Wing was secure.

Back in bed, Eric slept. The X-Wing I tucked under my mattress, to be inspected the next day.

Morning. I made sure it was still there, but inspection would have to wait until after school. The bus came at 7:30, and we had to be out at the bus stop by 7:25. No time.

All day, I thought about what it would look like when I saw it in daylight. I thought of ways I might fix it. My daily breaks were filled with drawings of X-Wing and Tie Fighter battles and Death Star assaults. But what did MY X-Wing look like?

Home. Snack time. Run to my room, when all the daycare kids go outside. Mom knows I usually come home and decompress in front of the record player for an hour.

Gently I lift the mattress from its place, and remove my X-Wing.

It looked worse in the daylight. It still had that melted plastic smell. But I kept looking, kept thinking, kept imagining.

My disappointment slowly turned to pure, absolute joy. You see, this particular X-Wing came with stickers. Stickers for its flight markings, but also stickers for battle damage. Laser scorches.

I had never put those stickers on. But.

I now had an OFFICIAL, ACTUAL FIRE BURNT, BATTLE-DAMAGED X-WING!!!!

No one on earth would have one like mine! They couldn’t make another one like it! My 8-year-old imagination went wild!

I would play with this X-Wing secretly for a time, and then it was part of my regular play again. I don’t know if dad ever saw it around or saw me playing with it. But I kept it until I lost it, or it got sold in the yearly family yard sale. But I never forgot… the lesson and the remodel.

My dad loved to listen to Paul Harvey. I would sit in the front of the motor home during camping drives, and listen with him. I liked the gravelly voice, the way Paul included details, things not everyone notices. And like so many others, they loved hearing Paul’s voice narrate a story with a twist, a moral, a teachable moment, an applicable truth to all.

 

In the words of Paul Harvey, “And now, the rest of the story…”

 

Fast forward 12-13 years. I am in my first semester of college, at Indiana Wesleyan, to begin a new chapter in life.

While home one weekend, my dad and I were in the garage or talking about tools, and the propane torch is still there. Only this time it is sitting on a shelf out in the pole barn he had built. I laugh and pick it up.

“Dad, you remember what you did that time Eric and I got caught playing with fire in the backyard?”

My dad thought a moment, and a sheepish look came over his face. He looked back at the bench, then the torch.

“Yeah. I know it was your favorite. And I was so upset that you would do something so careless and stupid with your brother like that. I grabbed the first thing I saw on the counter.”

I FORGOT! Whenever I came into the house from playing outside, whatever I was playing with went on a spot on the counter, against the wall, right by the doorway leading to the backdoor and basement. That’s how he got it! That’s why he grabbed it. It was the first thing he saw.

“Yeah, it upset me that I had to show you boys that way, and I always felt bad about it, because I know you couldn’t get another one like it.”

I smiled and laughed.

“DAD! You don’t understand. Yeah, I have never and will never forget that lesson you taught. It scared the hell out of both of us. I never played with fire like that again. But Dad. You gave me the best X-Wing ever by doing that!”

He looked at me quiet and confused.

“Dad you probably created the first actual battle-damaged X-Wing like it ever. I even snuck down in the middle of that night, to get it out of the trash to keep it. I played with it for at least another year or two, before I lost it.”

“You mean I actually made it a better toy?”

“YES! And you never saw me playing with it? So, you never knew???”

“Nope. Here I am feeling bad I did that. And I had to wait 13 years, to hear the rest of the story!”

A year or two later, I am home visiting again, and dad excitedly says, “Dan! I got to tell our story.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was listening to 94.9 WVIC, and Rich Michael's morning show was asking people to call in and tell them about a time or story when you learned something from your kid about how what you did hadn’t been so bad or what you though. I figured I would try and they got me on the air! I got to tell them about how I felt the worse about ruining your favorite toy, to teach you a lesson, and then having to wait 13 years to find out it made it your favorite toy of all! They loved it!”

I was so happy that my dad had that moment. He got his own Paul Harvey moment with me and for himself.

It was, and still is, a core memory of mine, although it took 13 years in the making. I have never forgot, both the lesson, the X-Wing moments, and the rest of the story.

 

Epilogue:

Today, January 26, 2023 the rest of the rest of the story can be written. In 4 days, I will turn 49. I will be older than my dad was, when he torched my X-Wing.

41 years. That toy was made by Kenner in 1982. I believed that it was gone for the ages, and only remained in my memory. Heck, at one point, I thought maybe I made up the toy in my head, because I could not find any reference to it.

By chance, I stumbled on eBay, found the make and model. It’s in like new condition, stickers, pilot and all. It feels and looks just like it did in 1982. It will go into a shadow box, with a few things to connect with this story. I feel like its gone full circle now. A dad had to teach his sons a lesson. The son gets to teach the dad the different ways our actions impact others for good and bad, and now I got a new X-Wing to remember. I will need to remember for my own, the lessons I may have to teach and how I teach them, will mean what I want them to mean, but they will also have a choice to make the memory and meaning to carry on their own.

My dad and I were able to share not only me understanding how hard it was for him to make a lesson for me to remember, but also, he was able to understand what it was like for me, to see something I loved destroyed. And how I had to learn a way to re-shape it, re-new it, to learn the lesson and go on. In the words of another great movie, Superman:

“You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone. You will make my strength your own. You will see my life through your eyes, as your life will be seen through mine. The son becomes the father and the father becomes the son.”