This past weekend I visited the Quonset Air Museum with my father and girlfriend, anxious to do so but finding it strange as I watched myself shape into the taciturn young boy I once was. At least, I was this way when I used to visit his house. My grandfather; Elwin (Al) Sparling, retired U.S. Navy pilot and to me -- from my childhood, up until his death about a year ago -- a strong, proud man known only as Bompa. I think I realized even as a child how ridiculous of a grandpa alternative name Bompa was, and I definitely know that it sounded strange when I had my last conversation with him in the hospital. Still, the moniker always seemed to carry an air of reverence in my mind, although in hindsight he probably couldn't stand having his now twenty-something and thirty-something year old grandchildren calling him that. But, he never complained about it. Not even once. That wasn't his way.

For longer than I had been alive, my grandfather had been undergoing a project of mammoth proportions; literally rebuilding, by hand, an exact replica of the plane that he flew in World War II, the F6F-3 Hellcat. If a kit of some kind existed for building this plane, he clearly opted against using it. Instead, he fashioned every last piece of this aircraft, and wired every inch of its electronics, with the help of only his blueprints and his memory. Before this project even started, he had fathered eight children and after the construction commenced, became "Bompa" to a number of grandchildren and, years later, great-grandchildren. For over thirty years, he toiled in an old barn during the little spare time that he had, determined to see his plane fly someday.

I can vaguely remember visiting him one idle Sunday morning with my father, probably close to twenty years ago. Even then, being as young as I was, I marveled at the site of the craft. Though at this point it was skeletal and clearly years away from completion, the plane was remarkable. Strewn about the barn were enormous sheets of metal, arcane control mechanisms, and a welter of odd-looking tools -- leading me to wonder, even to this day, how one man can build a plane in a barn. Or anywhere, for that matter. Clearly, he had no such doubt, for he forged on for years in that barn -- not playing the role of hobbyist, rather that of the impassioned builder.

Diabetes became the first enemy to strike Airman Sparling. What hundreds, if not thousands, of Japanese planes could not do while battling with my grandfather over the South Pacific, this disease was able to do with relative ease. First to be effected was his eyesight, rendering him unable to meet the requisite pilot licensure measures. As a result, his pilot license was revoked, and it immediately became clear that my grandfather would never again have the opportunity to operate an aircraft. Only a few years later, the neuropathy in his left leg had worsened to the point where it required amputation, making everyday life that much more difficult. Be this all as it may, he never once stopped going to the barn. Although in his 80s by this point, he still had a job to finish.

Cancer does not run in everyone's family, but it all too often still ends up being an unwelcome guest. This was the case for my grandfather, whose lineage did not foretell this part of the story. He was always a strong man, both in terms of his physicality and in sheer presence. But, a chink in his armor was formed when he lost his leg, when he was forced to hobble instead of walking tall. Cancer further ravaged him, from the inside out. He grew smaller, slower, older -- right before our eyes. The irony is that he finally started to look like someone that you would call Bompa, rather than someone who just let you get away with it. He knew that his time on earth was almost up, and quite honestly, so did everyone else. But, that stubborn old man refused to go without a fight. He refused to go without his plane.

I honestly forget the exact timeline, but I believe it was less than a month before he was admitted to the hospital that my uncle and a few other people brought my grandfather to the barn. They rolled the plane onto the expanse of grass that surrounded the wooden, makeshift hanger, and allowed my grandfather to see something that he had been waiting to see for over thirty years. The F6F-3 Hellcat. A World War II relic. Resurrected by the hands of a man whose own life was now nearing its end. Nothing had been changed or added; only the last bit of the engine's wiring had been circuited, based completely on my grandfather's notes. And then, it started. The engine roared as the propeller spun faster than the speed of time. The embodiment of an entire life's devotion to country, family, and personal achievement, spinning into infinity right before his eyes.

Memories of my grandfather are still quite vivid, something that I hope remains that way for the rest of my own life. But, being at the museum, staring at his plane and all the news clippings, it reminded me of things that I didn't realize I had already forgotten. Nothing tangible, like his family-famous turkey soup or his nickname for my sister, but more of the intangible feelings -- like how it felt to be in the room with him, and especially how it felt to be in a room with him and my father. Three generations sitting next to each other, each their own men but each a distinct part of the other. That exact feeling was brought back to me last Sunday, when my father and I stood before my grandfather's plane, as if it were the three of us in the room again. It made me sad that I had not spent more time with him when he was alive. It made me happy that his years of hard work and honorable military service were being properly recognized. And, above all, it made me proud to be part of his family.