Smelling Like a Rose
My dad was a man of character and optimism. He also had an uncanny ability: he could make gallons of lemonade when given a single lemon. In times of trouble, he could always find a soft landing. Somehow, he managed to “come out smelling like a rose,” an expression of his that I heard many, many times.
As a young boy, he always dreamed of being a pilot. When the Second World War erupted, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps on the day of his 18th birthday. His eyesight exam abruptly ended his dream of piloting. Instead, he became a flight navigator. His bomber squadron was ready to deploy, but before he could be a hero, Japan surrendered.
He missed the war, but he gained a G.I. Bill college scholarship. That was a pretty nice landing. In 1946, Art Molina was one of hundreds of GI veterans flooding the University of Southern California campus. The percentage of females to older males was at an all-time low, but somehow a young co-ed caught him out of the corner of her eye. Anne-Marie Picard stood in front of the Bovard Auditorium talking with a girlfriend. Her friend pointed out Art to Anne- Marie.
“Ugh! That guy is getting way too serious! I’m going to dump him!”
Anne-Marie looked Art up and down. He was tall, handsome, and in an instant, available. It
didn’t take a split second for her to decide. Yes, she would be very happy to be introduced to that guy. Art and Anne-Marie were happily married in 1950. Mom forever after reminded Dad that she caught him on the rebound. Amidst hundreds of possible suitors, my dad came out smelling like a rose.
Now married and with a business degree, he was able to pursue his lifelong love of airplanes, working in the booming aerospace industry. And like so many of the Greatest Generation, he helped contribute many children to the booming Boomer Generation... all six of us.
He would tell us that during his decades of employment, every single company he ever worked for shut down and folded. When his first job at Slick Airways closed, he jumped to Fluor, then to Autonetics, to North American, to North American/Rockwell, and finally to Rockwell International. When every job ended, he somehow found a bigger, better one. His joke, of course, was that Art Molina must have caused every company to close, one after the other. But every single time he jumped ship, he got aboard another one and ended up smelling like a rose.
I knew all along I was very lucky to have him as a dad. One of the best examples was when I was 8 years old. I loved baseball. I particularly loved the L.A. Dodgers. At age 8, I knew I was destined to be in the Major Leagues. I raced down the street after supper and gathered a handful of friends to play baseball every evening. I wore my Dodger hat. We played in the street, using the metal street cover as a home base. I listened to Vin Scully call every Dodger game, even on school days. I had to keep my transistor radio very quiet on school nights, as I lay under the covers so Mom couldn’t hear.
Day after workday, my dad came home exhausted by his hour plus commute from El Segundo to Whittier. By his count, there were 99 stoplights on the trip. Nevertheless, the first thing he did when he got home was to grab a mitt and play catch with me in the backyard. We both enjoyed it. On my birthday, my dad got us tickets for a Dodgers game at Chavez Ravine.
There was no Little League at that time in Whittier. My dad knew how much baseball meant to me. He and a few other fathers formed the first Little League in our neighborhood. I remember going out with him on work parties, building a brand new little league ball field on a donated vacant lot. Since my dad was on the Little League board, he was able to ask me what team name I would like to choose. Imagine the wide-open eyes of an eight-year-old being asked that question! “Dodgers?” I asked, astonished, trying to believe this could be happening.
On opening day. I was decked out in my spanking new Dodgers jersey. I spent the next four years playing as a Dodger. In the final year, I hit my only home run. It was a grand slam. My dad was in the stands that we both helped build.
His six kids flourished. Despite company after company going out of business, he was able to pay for 8 years of private Catholic grade schools, and plus 4 years of high schools for all six children. Doing the math, Art paid for 72 years of private school tuition!
While juggling tuition obligations and switching from one company to the next, there came a critical moment.
My brother Tony and I were at Servite High School; his other four children were at St. Bruno’s School. North American/Rockwell decided to move their headquarters to Pittsburgh. My dad had to make a difficult decision: whether to stay or to go. If he stayed, he would have to find another job.
I remember I was very scared during that time. I couldn’t face the prospect of leaving my many friends, activities, my whole teenage life. I envisioned Pittsburgh to be a dreary, frozen industrial town belching clouds of stinking pollution. My brothers and sisters were on edge. It was a difficult time and a difficult choice.
He chose not to go to Pittsburgh. Instead, he found another job in Los Angeles. I don’t know if he took a pay cut by staying, but we were very, very grateful and relieved. Our busy lives continued as usual.
I know his main concern was for us, his family. And as usual, Art managed another happy ending. After two years in Pittsburgh, Rockwell had enough and decided to return to Los Angeles. Dad got a phone call from the Big Boss, an offer to him with a promotion and a raise, which he accepted. Another happy ending, smelling like a rose.
Despite all the 72 years of tuition he spent, he was not done yet. Eventually, he reached into his wallet to pay for a portion of 6 times 4 college undergraduate tuitions, as well as 5 postgraduate degrees. Once 29 more years of tuitions were done, Dad hunkered down, saving for retirement.
One morning, he stepped aboard the elevator at Rockwell. Once the doors closed, a co- employee dropped dead with a heart attack. Dad was 63 years old at that time, and he decided he’d go up to personnel the same day and start his retirement papers. It was a sudden career shift to full-time dad, husband, and grandpa. Years later, he told me this was the best career move he ever made. Once again, smelling like a rose.
During the years left, he met his sixteen grandchildren. Art and Anne-Marie spent their new career hosting holiday meals, helping kids move to new homes, attending graduations, baptisms, marriages; playing with the kids and then their kids’ kids.
Dad earned a special moment in his lifetime love of flying, when his two grandsons showed him around the hangars of their airport business, and then took him flying across the Arizona
skies It was a wonderful thrill for him to be able handle the pilot’s throttle, a life-long goal. It was a long road to fly, but as always, he managed to land, smelling like a rose.
On his 84th birthday, I called him on a Sunday to wish him a happy birthday. All through his retirement, Mom and Dad called us every weekend. Back when long-distance phone calls were expensive by the minute, my parents were able to get a long-distance phone package, allowing them to call all their children every weekend at a better rate.
Two days later, I got another phone call. My dad had passed away.
Dad had been in excellent health his entire life. He did not smoke. He never spent a night in a hospital. Apparently, he died of a sudden heart attack. Mom told me it happened in the morning while praying the rosary, which was his daily habit.
One would imagine I would be overwhelmed with grief and sorrow. But I wasn’t. The love and faith that he had blessed me with his whole life made me believe, to know that we would always be together. And smelling like a rose.
Thanks, Dad.
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