Dana ParsonsDad, 83, remains young at heart where his 11-year-old son is concerned. In fact, his wife says they could be twins.
LOS ANGELES, California (Los Angeles Times) December 18, 2007:
NASA gave Bob Chandler a gold medallion in June for his exceptional work at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, but that's not why we're writing about him.
He's a veteran of World War II and Korea and seems like a pretty decent guy, but that's not why we're writing about him.
We're writing about him because he has three sons. One is 60, another is 54.
The third son turned 11 last month. The same month that Chandler turned 83.
Let me help you with the math. He was in his 20s when his first two sons were born. When Joey was born in 1996, Chandler was just shy of 72. And to answer your question, Joey was conceived the old-fashioned way.
As we chat on his patio in Coto de Caza and watch weekend golfers take their hacks on the course just beyond his property line, Chandler wonders what the big deal is.
When I ask what he thinks the story is, he says, "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth."
He's not being coy; he laughs right along with me as he notes he's 10 years older than his father-in-law and calls him "dad" and is called "son" in return. And yes, he's 28 1/2 years older than his wife, Terri.
And he doesn't mind telling about being out with Joey when someone will say to the boy, "Is that your grandfather?" and Joey will pipe up, "No, this is my dad." Nor does he mind noting that his colleagues at JPL, where he supervises the print and multimedia operations, have suggested that he and Gutenberg once were colleagues.
So, yeah, he gets it.
It's just that, what's the big deal? He and Terri had a baby, and they're raising him. He has a job that he likes, so he keeps working. If that means getting up at 4 a.m. in Orange County and heading for the vanpool site to be at his desk at 6:30 a.m. and then arriving back home at 7 p.m. or so, that's the schedule.
Where's the story?
For my tastes, the story is that this is a guy who's always done things differently. This is a guy whose mother died within months of his birth and whose father never seemed to have steady work.
This is a guy who punched a high school teacher (the 1912 Olympics high jump champion) and was kicked out of Venice High School. This is a guy who forged his father's name so he could join the Navy and was one step short of the brig in 1945, only to be spared by a sympathetic officer and discharged instead.
And this is a guy who turned it all around.
Chandler says it's virtually impossible to connect the dots from the directionless youth he was to the man he is today. Worried about being too old for his son? No, he says. "I believe my brain waves are childish-like, anyway."
Terri, whom Chandler married in 1984 -- three years after finding his wife of 36 years dead at home of a massive heart attack -- has suggested that Bob and Joey are twins.
Chandler wonders whether Joey isn't mature beyond his years, as if father and son have melded into an intergenerational hybrid.
Joey is fascinated that his dad actually was in World War II. He and his pals want to hear stories of Chandler's tour on munitions ships that were involved in several Pacific Island invasions, including Iwo Jima.
It would be foolish for me to try and chronicle a father-son relationship I haven't witnessed, but Chandler says it wouldn't be all that unique. He and Joey hang out together. They talk about things, and Chandler goes to ballgames and figures they'll be doing a lot of camping in the year ahead when Joey advances to Cub Scouts.
It's just not that exciting, Chandler seems to be saying, to talk about making toys out of wood with your son or "camping out" for a night with him in the car in the driveway when a weekend trip wasn't doable.
It's what dads do.
"I'm thrilled to be around an 11-year-old," Chandler says. "He's got so much spontaneity in him, he keeps me young, keeps me going. My wife thinks I do too much for him and could spoil him, but I didn't have that when I was a youth, and I wish I could have."
He's talking about attention. And it's easy to see how much Chandler admires his son's return of affection, not something all 11-year-olds dole out. "He's a hugger," Chandler says. "I cannot walk in a room without him running up and giving me a hug. That's beautiful. I think I would be just the opposite. I'd say, 'I don't want to be with you, Dad, you're too old.' But that's not true with him. I cherish those moments. He's quite a kid. I look at him and say, 'I wish I were like that when I was younger.' "
Chandler knows I'm waiting for flowery philosophizing on raising a kid at his age. He won't offer any, nor presume to advise other men on having children late in life.
When you're in reform school by 11th grade and end up getting a medallion from NASA, your life speaks for itself. No need to philosophize or pontificate.
And when you've worked 40 years for an outfit that looks to the stars and you're raising a preteen in your 80s, you don't look back. Everything is futuristic, out ahead of you.
"I don't know of anything else to do," Chandler says, "but do what God put you on Earth to do -- have fun and enjoy life to its fullest."
And if a teenage Joey someday pulls away, wants some distance from his father, as teenage boys sometimes do?
"He hasn't yet, so I can't see him doing it," Chandler says. "I'm aware that's possible, but I see him differently. I see him walking and all of a sudden he's grabbing my hand to hold it. I think he's thrilled to have an older guy as his dad. He just appreciates his dad. I feel that appreciation and that love and warmth that he has."
Copyright 2007 Los Angeles Times
