You didn’t see the plane land. That must’ve happened on a runway you couldn’t see from where you were. But there was an announcement of its arrival and Mom told you that Daddy was home. It took a while for it to pull up to the gate, and a while longer for the ground crew to roll up the mobile stairway, and for the baggage carts to arrive. Mostly you were watching for Dad. The door finally opened and the passengers began shuffling out and down the stairs. It seemed to take forever until you finally caught a glimpse of the one passenger who—at that moment—mattered most.

Dad seemed to be gone a very long time.

1960 has been a very hard and confusing year for you, kiddo, hasn’t it? In January—right on Dad’s birthday in fact—Mom went into labor. You and your brothers were taken to Grandpa’s house and Dad took Mom to the hospital. You guys had been looking forward to this: a new baby brother! Or maybe even a sister this time! An exciting moment. But when Dad came back to Grandpa’s many hours later, he wasn’t smiling. He knelt down and swept all three of you into his arms with what seemed a combination of strength, tenderness and heartbreak, and told you that your new brother—Danny—wouldn’t be coming home. There was something wrong with his little body, he said, and although he fought as hard as he could he just wasn’t strong enough. Danny had gone to heaven.

Several dreary days later, you stayed at home, while Dad tended to Danny’s funeral and burial. And, although Mom seemed glad to have you and your brothers near, her sadness was overwhelming, and something you weren’t ready to process. You felt terrible, not only because there was nothing you could do to make her feel better, but also because you didn’t feel the same sadness. But years from now you’ll realize that you couldn’t possibly have felt the way Mom did, and not only because you were just 9 years old at the time. You never knew Danny, you never saw him smile, and you never heard him cry. You weren’t even allowed to attend his funeral. It was as if your new brother was something from make-believe.

Well, winter turned to spring and spring to summer and things were beginning to seem a bit brighter. Mom was able to smile again, though she seemed older somehow and a little more on-edge. And Dad carried on, always the man in the family. Always the strong one.

And then the sadness came again.

You were in bed (but awake) when the phone call came. You heard the whole story. This time it was about Dad’s brother, Danny…your Uncle Danny. Moments before he had stepped off a curb to cross a busy Los Angeles street and was hit by someone who had run a red light and left the scene of the accident. Uncle Danny never had a chance.

It had been several years since you last saw your uncle and, while you remembered liking him, you had a hard time picturing what he looked like. He had never lived close by. In any case, 1960 had struck again. Two Danny’s, and now it would be up to Dad—once again—to be the man. On the phone he assured Grandma that he’d take time off of work and fly to L.A. He would handle all the details. You remember thinking that he was the strongest and bravest man in the world. You had lost a brother and an uncle, neither of whom you knew very well, but Dad had lost a brother and a son. You wondered if you would ever measure up to him. And you doubted it.

But today, Dad came home and when he walked through gate and caught sight of his family standing on the upper level he smiled. He entered the gate from the tarmac and made his way to the escalator. He looked a bit older than you remembered…and very weary. And in an instant it struck you. He needed you. So you broke away from Mom and made for the escalator, and against all airport regulations raced down the upwardly moving steps and into Dad’s arms. As in January his hug was strong and tender. But instead of heartbreak you felt something else. And one day, many years from now, he’ll tell you what it was: gratitude…and pride. That was when Dad learned that he didn’t have to carry the load all by himself. That’s when he realized there was another man in the family.

You will never forget the trials your family faced in the year 1960. And you will always remember Dad’s homecoming. You will remember how it felt knowing you were able to lift some of his burden. And you will remember that last glimpse of his plane before you headed back home. “North Central Airlines” was stenciled on the sides, and on its tail a striking, stylized bird of some sort in bright blue. You’ll always remember it as the very Bluebird of Happiness.

Later, when you’re all grown up, you’ll learn that before it was called North Central, the airline was known as Wisconsin Central Airlines, and that will make the memory better still. You’ll want to tell this story sometime in the future, and when you do…well…go ahead and cheat a little. Make the plane that brought your Dad home the one named after Wisconsin. That’ll make it perfect. And I don’t think anyone will mind at all.

“Wings Over Wisconsin”    1992    John T. McCarthy, Jr.    8-color silkscreen