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On December 21, 1972, my dad, the slot pilot with the United States Air Force Thunderbird squadron, slammed into the Nevada earth in his F-4. The crew chief in the back seat on the final flight of his Thunderbird tour was killed with him.

My dad was 30 years old; I was 3 1/2.

The only memory I own of my dad are of his hands typing.  It wasn't until I was writing a book about him that a friend pointed out what should've been obvious: my only memory is of my dad typing. Writing. What you do, Lisa.   

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