Here's To You, L.A.
Where the sun always shines.

In the halls of heaven, you will find L.A.'s mansion down a particularly nice street known as Mechanics Boulevard.

Sitting there in his drive is a beautiful cream Chevrolet convertible, vintage 1949. It is one of many cars L.A. owned in his earlier life, a long and well-spent time in which he distinguished himself in part through his stewardship of the wrench.

Sometimes on sunny days (which is, of course, every day), L.A. drives the convertible top-down to the shore of the sea. There he sits on the back of the trunk, the sea wind blowing through his dark and wavy hair. It is remarkably like a day in 1951 he spent with the bride of his youth, except she has yet to join him here. L.A. looks forward to sharing this beach with her, and knows it will not be long before they drive here together, top-down, the Chevy straight-six running perfectly.

Unhappy parts of his earthly existence have faded from memory. In this place, L.A. recalls only the good times, which certainly include 1951. That was the year he left his job as a mechanic in an Atlanta motor garage for the hangars of Delta Air Lines. It was the best move of his life. The newfound security and raise that came with his airline job enabled L.A. to buy his first house, trade in the old Packard for this sweet Chevy convertible, and lay the foundation for a good life with his wife and three sons yet to be born. L.A. would pass on to two of them his stewardship of the wrench, with the middle son, in fact, joining the ranks of Delta mechanics some 35 years later. And despite his having been a warrior by necessity against German soldiers in the Black Forest, L.A. would later delight in his ownership of two new Beetles, a `59 and `65.

But all that lay in the future. In 1951, L.A. had his hands full learning the complexities of the Pratt & Whitney and Wright reciprocating engines that hung on the wings of Delta's little fleet of DC-3s, 4s & 6s. Those engines were put together like fine watches, the zenith of piston-engine technology. Little did he know then that in just ten years, the recips would be a dying breed, jettisoned by the airlines for the scream of the jet. Before then, L.A. would not only become intimately familiar with the monster turbo-compound 3200-hp engines of the DC-7, but would distinguish himself as one of Delta's master mechs. By 1983 and his retirement, L.A. would learn not only the engines, but every system of every plane in the Delta fleet. If pressed, he would modestly admit to being able to do just about anything with an airplane except fly it.

In 1951, L.A. would rise early, shower and shave, and don a new khaki uniform with the stylized Delta logo on the chest. He would eat breakfast with his young wife, and then head out the door to drive the Chevy a few miles from Forest Park to the Atlanta airport. Behind the wheel, looking forward to the day's work, L.A. would sometimes shake his head in wonder at just how he came to be so blessed, doing a job he loved with good men who knew their way with a wrench, providing a comfortable life for his family, and, of course, driving what would become a succession of sweet cars.

For all his professional competence, L.A.'s earthly life was most distinguished by his kind and generous nature, his loyal commitment to family and friends, and the significance that marks the man who leaves the world a better place for having been there. He never went to college, never wrote a book, and certainly never made much money, but in the things that mattered, L.A. made a difference. Just ask anyone who knew him.

Here's to you, Lewis Albert Sparks.

Happy Father's Day.  -Rick Sparks

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