Reflecting on Memorial Day

I have been thinking about my father all day this Memorial Day.  He was a veteran of WWII and would have been 87 this year.  He did not die in battle defending our country.  He died at the young age of 62, of lung cancer. 

I’m sure if he were here he would be reminding me that Memorial Day is a day to remember those who gave their lives in battle defending our country, while Veterans’ Day is a day to recognize those who bravely fought, and those who are still fighting, for our freedom. 

Although my father did not die in battle, he gave of himself, as so many young women and men are doing today, and he was, as they all are, forever changed by the experience.  He used to tell me that we live in the greatest country in the world and that we are the luckiest people in the world.  However, of his war experiences I can only tell you the following:

• He was an Army Corp. engineer (his dream was to be a Navy pilot, but his eyesight     was bad, (something I, unfortunately inherited from him) and so, even in wartime – the Navy would not accept him);
• He was an Avenger of Bataan;
• He watched a good friend die in a foxhole next to him (and he would become emotional just saying that);
• His last promotion was to a position in the watch tower, a job that came with a life expectancy of approximately 24 hours.  (As luck would have it, within a short time on his watch, the camp was ordered to disassemble and move on);
• He used to write letters to his mother, changing his middle initial in the signature on each letter, to spell out his location, so she would have an idea where he was.  It was supposed to be classified information;
• When he was on base and his parents could come visit him, his mother would ride hours or days carrying a banana bread loaf that she made for him, because it was his favorite.  (To this day, I make an amazing banana bread – can practically do it with my eyes shut at this point – and I think of him and that story every time I make it).

Like so many of my father’s generation, he didn’t talk much about the war.  These are the only facts/stories that I could ever get out of him, no matter how much I asked him to tell me.  Maybe he was trying to protect himself from reliving the memories.   Maybe he simply wanted to protect me from the atrocities of war, from the many harsh realities of the world and this often cruel life that we live.

There is so much I could write about veterans and what our country and society could and should be doing for them.   But, that’s not really what this blog post is about.  This is about my father.

There is so much that I would like to write about my father.  Meal time was an adventure.  He never sat down for a meal that didn’t last a minimum of 3-4 hours.  This is not an exaggeration.  I mean literally. I’m not kidding.  We routinely shut restaurants down.  When at home, my mother was constantly reheating food and refilling drinks while my father continued to tell stories and ask questions and pull stories out of dinner guests and family.  He loved good food and good conversation.  He used to tell me that he was forced in the army to eat rations in a cold, wet foxhole, and even when they had the luxury of a mess tent, meal time was limited to 15 minutes.  He swore to himself that he would never be rushed through a meal again.  And he wasn’t. 

He loved comedians.  He watched very little T.V. other than news and sports, with the exception of a few favorites including Carol Burnett, M*A*S*H, and Hogan’s Heroes.  He was a huge sports fan.  On a Sunday afternoon, he would have the little television in the kitchen on one sport, the radio on another, while simultaneously scanning the sports page in the newspaper.  The only sport he never liked was the steeple chase.  He said it was cruel to the horses.

He never read fiction.  He said life was interesting enough, why would you need to make anything up?   He could pick up any instrument and play it by ear.  He was generous and fun-loving and lovable, and also serious and firm in his beliefs and the way things should be.  He was a Republican back in the day.  He was economically conservative, but with decidedly liberal personal views.

He abhorred bigotry and intolerance of any kind, and instilled the same in me.  He taught me that I was smart (because that’s what he believed) and pretty (because that’s what I wanted to be).  He told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. He taught me that I am special and valuable, and to think for myself and stand up for myself.

I wish that I could fully describe what an amazing man he was, and what a great example he provided me.  There are so many things that I wish I could say to him, talk over with him and get his advice about.  I wonder what he would think about the world today.  What would he think about the fact that we have been at war continuously for over a decade?  What about politics today, terrorism, the internet?   I can only wonder and hope that I live up to his example and be the best me I can be, every day, in his memory.