My father and I flew in and out of Bader Field for years.
That was the last place I saw him in the summer of 1972, as he and my mother took off in their Aztec for Philadelphia after visiting my wife and myself that Sunday. I wrote my latest book “Bader Field; How My Family Survived Suicide” (Nightengale Press) as homage to my father, who was my hero.
There are a couple of chapters on flying; one in particular which relives my own flight from Philly to Bader Field. The book memorializes Bader Field so that no matter what else is developed there, its vibrant history will live on, never to be forgotten. I have a very deep attachment to her; for me it is hallowed ground.
For years after my Dad passed away I could not bear to look at Bader Field; too much a painful reminder. But on one hot July afternoon in 2008, I was drawn there by an inexplicable force. As I drove through the unfamiliar “no trespassing” debris-laden dirt road, I was suddenly at the end of the runway I knew so well. Overgrown and suffering the indignities of extinction, it brought overwhelming tears of sadness. I was at last able to come home again and face the haunts of the past and allow those wonderful memories to replace them. This was a gift; a chance to say goodbye but take with me the indelible history of those wonderful years we spent there.