Flying With Dad

At age ten, Yvonne Caputo vied for her dad’s attention. At twenty, they fought about race. At sixty, she struggled to talk with him about what mattered.

In Flying With Dad, Yvonne Caputo charts her journey to her father through the re-telling of why he went from repairing planes to being a B-24 navigator in WWII, how heavy German flak led to post-war nightmares, and why he suffered years of guilt after one particular bombing run over Unterschlauersbach, Germany.

Over the years, Yvonne would ask her father questions about this past. She’d listen, pay attention, and found that he was paying attention to her as well.

As she learned to meet him where he was, instead of where she wanted him to be, the result was an intimacy, a deep abiding respect, and a no-regrets final goodbye.

Flying with Dad is a heart-wrenching and heart-warming story of a daughter striving to understand her father and him opening up about the experiences that shapes so many soldiers and can get in the way of the rich relationships they and their children deserve. 

"I felt an eerie calm. I lay down on my right side, the length of my body right next to Dad’s warmth. I put my left arm over his chest and murmured into his ear. “It’s all right. I love you and I will miss you, but you will be with Mom.” And then I recited the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven…” When the prayer ended, I said, “It’s okay Dad, you can go.”

The phone rang, and I got up from the floor. I returned to the kitchen to take the call from my brother Michael. As I was filling him in, one of the EMTs came in. When I saw his face, I knew. 

The EMTs put Dad on a gurney and carried him out to the ambulance that would take Dad to the ER to be pronounced. It had begun to snow heavily again, big fat white flakes light against my skin.

For a moment my personal grief gave way and I threw my arms in the air with fists clenched in the sign of victory. To the EMTs who were now staring at me quizzically, I said, “Yes, guys. You have given my dad his wish. He did not want to die in hospital. He wanted to be carried out of his home feet first, and that’s just what you’ve done.” 

I stood at the end of the gurney, pulled back the cover, and stroked my dad’s smooth, bald head. It had begun to grow cold. The journey had been awful. The journey had been beautiful. Dad’s face bore a peaceful expression that said, I’m home. I’m no longer in pain, and I’m with your mother.

As the ambulance doors closed, I lifted my face to the inky sky, the snowflakes falling from heaven melting and wet on my cheeks."