Bobbie Ann Mason is the author of several acclaimed books and short stories --- her next novel, THE GIRL IN THE BLUE BERET, will be published on June 28th. Bobbie Ann turned to her father-in-law, who served in WWII, as inspiration for this unforgettable story of love and courage. Below, Bobbie Ann discusses both her father-in-law and her father, comparing two of the most important men in her life.
My father died 20 years ago, but for 14 years after his death, I had the privilege of having an alternate father --- my father-in-law, Barney Rawlings. They were much alike, although they seemed startlingly different. Daddy was a Kentucky farmer who knew all about the earth and cows and dogs, and Barney was a pilot for TWA, living on Long Island, where he could drive easily to Kennedy Airport. He didn't care for cars. The majesty of the airplane was what counted, and he lived to soar through the sky.
For Daddy, a car was his Pegasus. He was fond of small foreign cars, and he bought the first Volkswagen in the county. Over the years he was proud to own a Fiat, a Renault, and a Suzuki, in succession. As a farmer, he was tied to the daily chores, but every day he would jump in his car and hit the road. It was this routine, his "little run" to town, that liberated him, much as Barney's flights to Cairo or London did him. World travel meant for Barney the flight itself, not the Pyramids along the Nile. Daddy felt that freedom in his car. He always knew where home was, and the delight of going away made home worth returning to.
Both fathers served in World War II, and the John Wayne stereotype of that generation applied. Barney was affable enough, addressing his passengers from the cockpit, but he was coolly reserved, kept his own counsel, and wasn't close to his family. Daddy was withdrawn, secretive. He found it painfully embarrassing to talk to anyone outside his own community of country people. When I came home from college, I was full of ideas that I could not share. I didn't know how to explain, say, James Joyce's stream-of-consciousness or nature imagery in LOLITA. The gulf between us widened. But in the last years of his life we found common ground as I gravitated back to the land. We shared a love for animals. He liked to have a small dog with him in his car, so they could go motivating down the road listening to Chuck Berry. I got my musical tastes from him.
Daddy died too soon, and we never got to the point where we could have the ultimate conversation we both wanted. Barney, my father-in-law, was forced to retire from flying at age 60. This was potentially devastating for him, but he surprised us. Folding his wings wasn't the end of the world. He began writing novels. And he wrote a memo
Tom McAllister’s debut, Bury Me in My Jersey: A Memoir of My Father, Football, and Philly, is pretty self-explanatory. Tom shared his love of sports, and of Philly, with his now deceased father, and this memoir serves as a coming-of-age tale many can relate to. Below, Tom discusses the joys of forming adult relationships with parents, and reflects on both his father, whom he misses, and his father-in-law, who has made Tom feel like his very own son.
Photo of Tom sandwiched between his father-in-law and his wife.
One of the primary rewards for surviving adolescence is that you get to form real adult relationships with your parents. As you move out, get married, acquire a mortgage, and generally mature, you can relate to your parents in ways you never have before. You can have a beer with them and talk to them like real people, and they feel more comfortable revealing themselves to you, filling you in on previously unshared personal histories. They want to hear your stories. They begin to ask you for advice.
I'm closer to my mother now than I've ever been, but I never had that opportunity to bond my father as an adult. He died eight years ago, when I was a junior in college. Cancer, details too familiar to recount. Years of bad judgment and various personal failures followed.
We were close, and I respected him while he supported me and imbued me with enduring loves for reading, writing, and football. But I was only beginning to really know him, late in his life, when he, probably sensing or at least fearing his impending death, recounted stories from his past. When he let me drink a beer with him even though I was underage, and we talked casually as if we'd been pals rather than occasional adversaries throughout high school and college.
So I obviously miss him on Father's Day, but am fortunate that that day has been salvaged for me. Because one thing I've done right over the past decade is I got married to a supernaturally supportive and compassionate and forgiving woman, and in the process of building our shared life, I've become a part of her extended family. Instead of sulking and wallowing in sadness because my father is gone while so many other families get to enjoy Father's Day in the presence of three or even four generations of fathers, I still have reason for celebration.
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In Mary Doria Russell’s latest novel, DOC, she seamlessly blends fact with fiction to recreate one of the most infamous gunfights in history, and to redefine two major icons of the American West: Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Such a feat may not have been possible without the influence of her strong father, who not only taught her to shoot, but instilled in Mary the confidence necessary to pursue her dreams.
Photo: Mary on a horse, taken by Kari Burkey
When I began researching the life of Wyatt Earp, I knew almost immediately that I would be able to present Wyatt fairly and compassionately in my novel, DOC. You see, I actually believe in honest cops. I'm realistic, but not cynical about that.
I'm a cop's daughter. Among other things, my dad was a Marine MP during the occupation of Japan. In civilian life, he was a town constable, a uniformed patrolman, a plain clothes detective, and an undercover narcotics officer. He capped his law enforcement career with five terms as the Sheriff of DuPage County, just west of Chicago. Police work was dinner table conversation in our house. I understand the tedium and the crappy pay and shift work, and the constant threat of danger. I am familiar with the way cops divide the world into three categories: Cops, Citizens, and Idiots.
To my father's continuing astonishment and chagrin, I was evidently born a Democrat, but I grew up with guns and that experience has influenced me in unpredictable ways. One of my earliest memories is my father taking me out into a stubbly cornfield in November. I must have been about four. He knelt down behind me and put the shotgun to his own shoulder, but showed me how to sight the gun and squeeeeeze the trigger. I don't remember being frightened by the bang. I just remember his body cradling mine, and the sense that if my dad said something was okay, I was safe.
By the time I was 13, in 1963, I was spending Saturdays with Dad at the police range: firing off a box of cartridges with a bunch of macho guys who were impressed that I could “qualify” with a .357 magnum, a handgun that weighed almost as much as I did. In the 1970s, when the women's movement for equal rights was picking up steam, I was already comfortable with men; it felt natural to compete with guys and to win sometimes. I expected to earn their respect and to enjoy their camaraderie.
As my dad himself could testify, I take crap from nobody, but I try not to ascribe to mali
Among her many novels, Nancy Thayer has penned The Hot Flash Club series, as well as HEAT WAVE, a perfect book for summer that's hitting bookstores on June 21st. Below, Nancy turns her attention to her father, from whom she learned the power of writing. Not only would her father run the car for her during blizzards, but he also inspired several characters in her novels.
Here’s a photo of my father as a child. I’m sure the book was a prop, because Bill Wright was an only child and a mischievous one, more likely to play tricks in his small Kansas town than sit reading. He grew up, went to college, and became a policeman in Wichita, Kansas, where, when he and his partner got bored, they put on their siren and lights and raced the full length of Kellogg, the longest street in the city. Then he went to Officer’s Training School and entered World War II.
After WWII, my father remained extremely involved in the American Legion and town politics. He was patriotic, he was always an usher at the Methodist Church, he loved his family and he adored my mother. He had sparkling blue eyes and he made us laugh a lot. He bought me a car during high school and, in the blizzardy Kansas winters, he went out while I was having breakfast and started the car so it would be warm when I got in it to drive to school. When I was twelve, in 1955, my father got me front row seats at the Orpheum Theater for my friends and me to see Elvis Presley. I got to run up to the stage and touch Elvis’s shoe --- and it was attached to Elvis! I thought our family was boringly average.
When I was in high school, my father became an officer for the Highway Patrol. He had a uniform, a squad car, and a gun. You can imagine the effect this had on the guys I brought home. Later, I discovered --- why didn’t I realize this before? --- that because of his law enforcement network, he always knew exactly where I was, in whose car with which boy, and for how long.
My father had to go overseas during WWII when I was a child, and it was from him I learned the power of writing: how it can transform any given moment of life. I have next to me the album my mother put together of photos and letters my father sent her from Europe. He was the commander of a tank battalion, and he saw a great deal of fighting, but his letters were always cheerful and emphasized the beauty of the countryside or a feast of fried potatoes in a newly occupied house.
He wrote this about an enormous statue of a lion at the Barrage de la Gileppe: “The lion, at least 200 feet high, sits on a large dam and is looking out over a deep valley. On the other side is a large lake bounded by beautiful snow-capped mountains. I drove down from the mountain, across the dam, and down the other si
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A college summer spent assembling diesel truck brakes was my dad’s greatest contribution toward my becoming an author. It was hot, grueling work, facts not lost on my father. He started on the assembly line when he was in school and worked his way all the way up the ladder. A co-owner and CEO when he retired, my dad never cashed a paycheck from another company.
My dad did not influence my becoming an author so much as he modeled for me what it takes to become a success: discipline, sacrifice, integrity, ingenuity, elbow grease, a sense of humor and, most importantly, perspective. Family always came first.
My father is a reader. Always has been. When I was a kid we lived in a small house in southeast Atlanta and my hangout was the basement. For a little guy, it was a cavernous place which sometimes could even be a tad scary. But the basement was where my father kept his books, stacked on metal shelves, the only light that of a bare bulb with a pull chain. Hanging from floor joists all around those shelves were clothes, stored there by my mother, each bundle protected by those plastic sheaths that still come from the laundry. I can recall many times pulling the string for that bulb, hearing that thin plastic rustle, then plucking a book from those shelves. 
was limited, but that never stopped him. The books kept coming. And I kept reading. 
