My dad helped get man to the moon.

Seriously. He helped build test rockets, they would blow up (sans astronauts), and crews would gather the pieces so he could analyze where the failures occurred.

Because the best laid plans of mice and men can go wrong.

That is why when I saw the concrete pad less than 20 feet from the creek, I shook my head.

“Dad, do you think you should build a little farther from the creek?” I asked.

“Son, I know what I am doing. It is a one in a hundred-year flood zone.”

Whatever that meant.

It was Saturday morning. I wanted to sleep in and spend the day playing in the woods below our house.

Instead, sunlight poured into my room as my dad pinched my big toe and sang the familiar song that meant I was about to spend the day working.

“Lazy bones, sleeping in the sun, how you gonna get your day’s work done…”

I threw a pillow at him.

“Leaving in 20 minutes. Get some breakfast. Gonna be a long day.”

Which I knew was a lie. Just finding all the tools would take an hour.

Later, I sat on a cinder block beneath a post oak tree while he pointed excitedly at the construction site.

“And it will have a patio deck, with a fire pit where we can eat watermelon with friends!”

He smiled gleefully.

Oh, and there would be a pool table. There was always going to be a pool table.

The A Frame slowly took shape. Old lumber. Rusted screws. Weathered materials from past projects. Somehow my dad could build something brand new that already looked fifty years old.

My father is a brilliant man. He worked on aircraft, rockets, early stealth technology, and won two Presidential Awards.

But as I learned from him and many of his scientist friends, not all—but many—of our nation’s greatest minds are a tad bit crazy.

Then came the rain.

If you’re native to Texas, you know there are lean years and green years. After what felt like forever without rain, the clouds finally arrived.

And they did not hold back.

The next day I sat on the rock wall in front of the house my great-great-grandfather built on a hill above the creek. Muddy water thundered through what had been a dry gully only a day before.

Trees snapped. Propane tanks floated downstream as cowboys lassoed them from the bridge.

My dad sat beside me.

During the night, his A Frame had broken apart and floated away. Pieces hung in tree limbs. The ugly shag carpet he got for free was shredded and tangled in the nearly submerged plum thicket.

Today, if you search for a one-in-a-hundred-year flood, you’ll learn it is not a certainty that there will only be one flood every hundred years.

It’s just a measurement of probability.

“Sorry, Dad, that your A Frame floated away,” I said, patting him on the back.

“It’s okay,” he replied.

Then I saw a slight smile cross his face.

Which struck me with fear.

The shingles had barely washed away when he said:

“Did I tell you about the lake house I am going to build on the stock pond?”

I just shook my head.

To a scientist, a project is never complete, and failure is simply an opportunity for something greater.

But to his son—

It was just another Saturday with Dad.

To explore more about failure, growth, and resilience, watch this STARLINK Teaching Tip featuring Simon Sinek. Learn why he encourages us to choose “falling” over “failure” and how this mindset can help us learn, adapt, and keep moving forward.

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