A Man Named Dave

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    On payday I’d rush to the on-base department store and scour every aisle that had anything to do with babies. As the months progressed, I picked out toys, stuffed animals, or anything I knew the baby would enjoy. When I ran out of playthings to buy, I spent time in search of the perfect stroller, carrying basket, or clothes, even though I knew the baby wouldn’t be able to wear some of the shorts and tank tops for years. I couldn’t control my excitement. When overseas, because money was so tight, I skipped a few meals in order to buy the baby a cute stuffed yellow alligator, which I named Wally. The more I did for my baby, the more my heart warmed.
    When a member of my squadron asked if I wanted a boy or a girl, my instantaneous response was “A healthy child with ten fingers and ten toes.” In the early spring, the air force doctors assured me that the fetus was perfectly healthy and was a boy. I was overjoyed with the news, but with my luck I had to think we weren’t out of the woods yet. Not until I held my baby in my arms would I be convinced that everything was fine.
    Since Patsy and I had set our rules, we got along better. Now whenever we had a disagreement, rather than argue I’d escape outside to putter in the yard until we both calmed down. I knew I had caused the disputes more than half the time, and it was Patsy who would make amends. Even though I still did not trust her as I felt I should, Patsy and I were now living together as husband and wife. All we could do was wait for our baby boy.
    In June of 1986 I had to attend a six-week flight instructor school course. Patsy was due in late July, so on every flight I’d drop by the administration office to give them the plane’s identifying call sign and frequency in case there was any news. On Fridays, after a lengthy day, I’d make the three-hour drive at warp speed, praying Patsy wasn’t in labor yet. The weeks crawled by and still no baby. Even after flight school, when the doctor assured Patsy and me everything was normal, I worried that something was wrong. Finally, in mid-August, Patsy went into labor. For months we had known our baby was a boy, but we could not decide on a name. As Patsy was wheeled into the delivery room, I held her hand and bent down to whisper if we could name our child Stephen Joseph. “Why?” she groggily asked. “Isn’t that your father’s name?”
    “Yeah, but it’s another chance, my chance to set things right. Please?” I begged. “It will make things clean for me.” Patsy smiled as she squeezed my hand. A short time later, I was the first person besides the doctor to hold my son, Stephen Joseph Pelzer.
    Stephen was so tiny and delicate I thought for sure he’d break if I moved the wrong way. I could have held him forever, but the small group of nurses insisted I relinquish my son to their care. Hours later, in the middle of the night, I lay on my bed thankful that Stephen was indeed completely healthy. Before falling off to sleep, I began to feel an invisible weight bear down on me, for now I was a father.
    Just over a week later, on a beautiful Saturday, Patsy and I made our first family trip. Before noon, with sunlight beaming through the towering redwood trees, I pulled up next to the same house where my father had taken his family on summer vacations seemingly a lifetime ago at 17426 Riverside Drive. Patsy and I had made countless trips to the Russian River, sometimes staying for only a few hours or even minutes at a time, and I had bored her to tears, constantly harping about one day living in Guerneville. And yet I could not explain to Patsy why I was so drawn to the area. With Stephen cradled in my arms, I sat on the old, decayed tree stump where my brothers and I had once played. As Stephen slept soundly, I shielded his sensitive eyes and whispered, “One day we’ll live here. We’ll live here at the river.” Rocking Stephen, I couldn’t help but think of my foolish pie-in-the-sky fantasy of my father and me having a relationship at the same spot my son and I now shared. “I’m gonna make things right,” I promised Stephen, “What I do, I do for you. As God is my witness, I’ll make things right for you.”
    That afternoon at the river was more than a family outing. Since that day my anxiety began to ease. Since Stephen was born, I had become paranoid, not only as a parent sustaining him, but other fears like illnesses, late-night fevers, and getting him all the appropriate shots at the right time. Back in