Tempe businessman Andrew Bird remembers the day his father seemed invincible.
“I always knew he was my hero,” Bird said, looking through old family photos. His father, Gary Bird, was among those who perished in the World Trade Center towers in the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the 14th anniversary of which is being observed this month.
In 1995, the family had just moved into South Tempe’s Tally Ho Farms. Andrew and his father were horseback riding through a nearby park.
“I was, like, 7. I jumped on Danny, our younger thoroughbred. He was on Lil, the mom, and we’re riding through the park. Danny gets spooked and she starts galloping through there. I was holding on for dear life,” Andrew recalled.
The story continues:
“I see (my dad) coming up behind me; he’s just holding his hat, riding. He grabs the reins, yanks it back and stops, and I looked up at him and there was this glow.He smiled at me and I was, like, ‘You are a magical man.’
“Those were the scariest moments of my life. He came out of nowhere and made it stop.”
When the 9/11 attacks took place a few years later, Andrew was only 13 years old, and the enormous reality of what transpired was difficult to comprehend. For years, he struggled. Looking back, he can see that, without realizing it, his father had imparted life lessons. Examining a faded photograph of his father in younger years, he sees a bit of himself.
“Look at this guy. Look at the face. It’s not a fake smile. You can tell this guy is genuine, this guy is real. You can tell he has a good heart.”
Like many millennials, Andrew has a tattoo, only this one is stunningly unique. It’s an image of his father, one that it hidden under his shirt and stays close to his heart.
“The adult I am, I notice that I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not who I was as a teenager, I’m not who I was as an early adult. The real me—that I love being, that I’m comfortable being, that I’m proud of being— is a man that’s almost identical to who he was,” Andrew said.
Donna, Andrew’s mother, sees a striking resemblance in character between her son and the husband she lost.
“I try always to put (Andrew) in touch with how much he’s like his dad, in what respects. Not in every single respect—no two people are alike—but he has so has so many of his dad’s endearing qualities, that intensity, that charm and a great sense of humor,” Donna said.
“Part of me doesn’t believe it. But that’s part of the reason why I got this thing,” Andrew said, recalling and now pointing to the tattoo. “It’s a constant reminder of the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other.
“Because I’ve been both. It’s a reminder of who I need to strive to be.”
There were some tough times with addiction, but Andrew is past that now and has made a conscious effort to serve others through the recovery community he became involved in four years ago this month. In taking the focus off himself, he’s discovered how good it feels to serve others.
“My first 2½ years I spent personally recovering, and then everything that I was given, I gave back. I helped probably 15 or so guys—a couple dozen guys—stay clean,” Andrew said.
Giving back was something integral to Gary Bird’s life. A man who could rightfully be called “Mr. Tempe,” Gary was active in Tempe Jaycees, Tempe Boys and Girls Club and Kiwanis. Early in their marriage, Donna said he came home one night and told her he’d put the Tempe Boys and Girls Club payroll on the credit card.
“The Boys and Girls club might have not existed had Gary not taken that step. He just said, ‘This is too important not to do this.’ That’s how invested he was in some of those organizations,” Donna said.
To continue that legacy, she’s been the benefactor in a scholarship program and other efforts to improve the lives of young people.
As the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks approaches, Donna reflected on how her South Tempe neighbors reached out in ways that still touch her heart. One family offered to care for Gary’s horses. Others brought meals or helped get Andrew and his 15-year-old sister to activities.
Her eyes still fill with tears when she recalls the day of her husband’s funeral. Someone in the neighborhood had painstakingly tied three white, helium-filled balloons to every single mailbox up and down the mile-and-a-half-long street.
“To do something like that,” she said—”Beautiful.”
