It was cool and rainin when I set out at 8:00 am with my mom to deliver the letters for a request for a variance to put two apartments on the second floor of a Firehouse my old man had just bought.
I was fifteen then, it was 1975, Saturday, October 25th, I was into my second year of HS, goin to a High Class Private School on a scholarship.
Everything was great, almost everything, I should have been on that plane, I should have been the one going Up State NY to the camp to close it up for the winter, usually wed sneak a little preseason hunting, deer, bear and whatever else we could shoot.
Yup it shouldve been me but it wasnt, I had goofed around at school a little too much that semester, the wrestling team was getting ready to go to the USSR that year for a goodwill match and we, I wasnt keepin' my grades up, so I got a B- in physics, my old man wouldnt let me go this time, I could use the week to study and deliver the variance letters with my mom, he gave me a hug and said well sneak up in a couple weeks and finish closin' up and do some huntin'.
That was the last time I saw him, Friday night before he left with five other friends and pseudo family members on a so called huntin' trip/end of year camp closin', the property once belonged to the Rockefellers and then a very wealthy friend of the family bought it, the only way in was by boat, nine miles up the Stillwater Reservoir, or by plane to a half mile runway I helped carve out of the woods with my old man, there was a road that took us 28 days to carve through the woods with a Cat D-9 and a few other pieces of road building equipment but thats another adventure.
Still it shouldve been me goin' but it wasnt, the plane was a brand new Piper Twin Engine Aztec E series, back then one of the more advanced planes out there, The Doctor who owned the plane and the camp was a pilot and certified to train commercial airline pilots, my old mad had countless hours flying time and tons of solo time, (he also had his pilots licence), it was cold and rainey when they left at 6:00 am that mornin' from Solberg a little airport in Jersey.
All day I pissed and moaned because I was stuck deliverin these stupid letters it was goin on 12 noon when we finally headed home, my old man was probably openin' up the lodge and startin a fire, turnin on the propane tanks for light and gettin ready to head out to our favorite deer run to check out the signs.
The night before, I helped him pack while he explained to me yet again why I couldnt go this time, he took my 308 bolt action Savage, his S&W 38 cal. Detective Special, his 44 magnum, a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun and two sheath knives, one was a Kabar fixed blade, like the ones you see them openin crates with in the old WW2 movies and the other was a split tang Edge Brand 10-12 Bowie knife with a Stag handle. He threw these into his duffle bag along with his huntin clothes and other survival necessities, hell hed be back in a week.
As we turned the corner to our street I thought I heard the guy on the radio say somethin about a small plane crash in NJ, my mom clicked off the radio just as we pulled up to the house.
My uncles truck was parked in front of the house, I thought this was kinda odd but I followed my mom into the house just in time to hear her scream and start wailin, I wasnt sure what my uncle told her but I knew it couldnt be good.
My mom stumbled over to me and grabbed on and said, Your fathers dead, theyre all dead
. the plane crashed and theyre all gone, then my uncle told her she needed to identify his body, so she left, she left a 15 year old boy who was closer to his father than anyone else, after tellin him his best friend was dead, she left him alone in the house, standin in the doorway sobbin.
The next week was a blur with funeral after funeral six in all, investigators from the insurance companies and the FAA, newspapers tv reporters, it was a circus and that 15 year old boy had to grow up quick that year.
Around spring I remember my mom askin me to go to the police station with her to pick up the guns and knives they recovered from the plane crash, they handed her several bags and a some gun parts, in one bag was the blade of the Kabar, apparently the knife was on his belt and when the plane hit the ground the blade went into his hip and the blade snapped, I still have the broken blade and then there was the Bowie, my mom kept that.
She eventually gave me the knife back in the early 80s but it was packed away and never seen again, till a few weeks ago, I was goin through an old toolbox of his I inherited after he died and there wrapped in paper was the knife a little rusty and kinda pitted but Ill be damned there it was, a little clean up with some steel wool and she was almost as good as new, the leather spacers had shrunk a little leavin the pommel a little loose but all in all still in good shape and still sharp as heck.
