I was reminded of a quote by Benjamin Franklin that nothing is certain except death and taxes when my father, a member of the Greatest Generation, passed away recently.
Like so many baby boomers, I knew this day would come. But I had hoped Dad might last just a bit longer.
Slightly more than a month shy of his 95th birthday, Dad had always been the picture of health until a couple of years previously. Even then he was only taking a couple of medications, fewer than me, his 61-year-old son.
Dad and my 91-year-old mother had always taken meticulous care of their health, never smoking, rarely drinking, practicing organic gardening long before it became fashionable, and staying active in their later years square dancing, walking, and riding a stationary bicycle. My mother was also a fantastic cook, making homemade meals, soups and desserts that were the talk of the neighborhood.
When we received the news that my father had suffered a massive stroke thousands of miles away in Missoula, Mont., I was celebrating both my birthday and Father's Day the afternoon of June 19.
I had been born on a Father's Day and my younger sister's funeral had been on my birthday seven years previously. I was beginning to think that my birthday was not all it was cracked up to be.
For the next two and a half days, we waited anxiously for news about Dad. The stroke had paralyzed him completely on his right side and rendered him unconscious.
We had made the decision not to fly immediately to Missoula from Little Rock because I knew that Dad would not recover and I wanted to remember him as he had been. His prior instructions had included a do-not-resuscitate (DNR) provision in the event of an incident of this type.
They moved Dad to a hospice room at the local hospital and made him as comfortable as possible with a morphine drip and some other medications to ease any discomfort that he might be experiencing.
My two sisters, who along with my mother were in his room around the clock, told me he looked like he was sleeping. His breathing was regular for the first two days until his body started shutting down.
At 4:06 a.m. on June 22, Dad passed away. It was a blessing.
The days that followed were filled with intense preparations and efforts by my sisters and me. They were involved with the funeral arrangements in Missoula and I was busy getting the word out.
You see, Dad was not just a 94-year-old being mourned by family and friends; he was known throughout the world.
At the time of his death, my father, David J. Thatcher, and 100-year-old Richard E. "Dick" Cole were the last two surviving members of the Doolittle Raid, a mission that rocked the world on April 18, 1942.
At the time of the Doolittle Raid, America was reeling. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, drawing the U.S. into World War II. In the intervening four months, the news had been constantly negative.
As Japan seized victory after victory in the South Pacific, U.S. morale plummeted. Americans were filled with fear and uncertainty, wondering how much longer it would be before Japanese forces were camping out on our West Coast.
And then this marvelous act of brash bravery by 79 young volunteer Army Air Corps flyers led by legendary aviator Jimmy Doolittle suddenly lifted American morale, ultimately changing the course of the war in the Pacific. It would be three more years before the U.S. finally prevailed in the war.
Dad had the extra element of fame because he was one of the more celebrated Raiders. An enlisted man, a corporal, he had saved the lives of the four officers in his crew on plane No. 7, the Ruptured Duck, after they crash-landed off the coast of China.
His pilot, Ted Lawson, wrote the first account of the Raid, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, which became a nationwide bestseller and later an Academy Award-winning movie of the same name. Many American boys born in the late 1940s and early '50s grew up idolizing Dad.
I started fielding calls from the media. Fortunately, I had written Dad's obituary a year earlier and he had approved it.
Word spread fast. The next day, the Missoulian, his hometown newspaper, had a front-page story above the fold.
That was followed by significant pieces in the New York Times and the Washington Post. The Associated Press picked up the story and it appeared in newspapers throughout the country, in broadcast media and in various military publications.
Word also spread on social media including Facebook. Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Mark Welsh III and actor and veterans' advocate Gary Sinise both placed posts singing Dad's praises on their pages. Our family also received a personal note from actor and aviation enthusiast John Travolta.
Dad's funeral on June 27 in Missoula was a big event for the city, a college town with an estimated population of 70,000, sitting in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. The funeral home told us it was the biggest funeral they had ever handled; they had to increase the seating to accommodate the capacity crowd.
Montana's governor Steve Bullock attended the funeral ceremony and ordered flags to be flown at half-staff.
Representatives from Montana's congressional delegation, Air Force generals and other military and civic leaders were also in attendance along with family and friends.
Our family had quickly prepared a tribute to Dad. Each of us three kids, a granddaughter and a son-in-law all shared poignant reminiscences from Dad's childhood, his military service and his life afterward.
Dad and my mother had been married for 70 and a half years and had raised five kids, two who had passed away far before their time.
Following the funeral ceremony, we followed the hearse in a long procession of vehicles including an Army tanker and American flag-wielding, motorcycle-riding representatives of the Patriot Guard to Sunset Memorial Gardens, where my father would be buried next to my older brother, a Medevac pilot who had perished in a helicopter crash in Vietnam.
After we gathered at the gravesite and the minister led us in a prayer, an honor guard from Great Falls-based Malmstrom Air Force Base took over.
Six airmen pulled from the hearse the simple wooden casket draped with an American flag, gingerly carrying it over to the stand above the grave and sliding it across the rollers into place.
The flag was removed and carefully folded 13 times into a tri-corner wedge before being presented to my mother.
Seven members of an Air Force firing party commenced with the crisp firing of their military carbines three times for a total of 21 shots. The mournful sound of "Taps" from a solitary Air Force bugler echoed through the nearby trees.
Then Dick Cole, the last remaining Raider, said a few words in honor of my father.
A few minutes later, a B-1B Lancer piloted by Col. Gentry Boswell, 28th Bomb Wing Commander from Ellsworth Air Force Base in South Dakota, shattered the stillness, thundering overheard from northwest to southeast.
The final act was justifiably fitting. A B-25 bomber, flown by a crew from Seattle, Wash., and of the same vintage as the Doolittle Raid, loudly rumbled in slowly across the sky from the northeast. It flew over twice, then circled the cemetery and the city of Missoula in ever-higher spirals before finally heading west to the heavens.
Dad's mission was finally accomplished.
Jeff Thatcher, a professional communicator and longtime resident of Little Rock, is president of The Children of the Doolittle Raiders, Inc., a group dedicated to keeping the legacy of the Doolittle Raiders alive.
Editorial on 07/10/2016