Not as much is written about
fathers, and surely Father’s Day doesn’t get the enormous attention that Mother’s
Day does. But undeniably the impact of
fathers on the lives of their children is enormous, and I thought for a change
to write on this subject.
My father didn’t see me until
I was a year and three months old. Oh,
he heard about me. I can read the tiny
cables that were sent both ways in the little aged envelopes that date from the
middle of the war. You know, the great
war, World War II, which killed many more than the other war to end all wars,
World War I.
I still know the story from
my mother. How I woke up the morning
after he had come home. How I was standing
in my crib (evidently, I was still in a crib for some reason). Standing and looking at this strange man.
So my dad missed the infant
years. He knew me after I had learned to
sit and stand and walk. Maybe even to
talk a little.
Well, he didn’t want it to be
that way. In that stack of old cables
and letters I can read after the end of World War II how upset and tired he was
being in Guam so far from home, wondering when indeed would he be sent home. I think they all wanted to come home, all of
the military, but then somebody had to
stay and keep things going in the really bad areas that were so destroyed by
the war.
Eventually he came, and our
life went on. Dad was quiet, quiet and
somber. He went about his work and life
in a steady and highly competent manner.
Getting it done. Before the War
sometime in the past he had wanted to be an architect. But now, with a family and those years all
gone away, no, he couldn’t see that. And
he was back in the hardware and building supply business with his cousins.
Dad never talked about the
war to me. I mean never. And so as a boy for some reason I didn’t
ask. I had other things going on of
course, like growing up. Once when he
was taking me over to meet my friend Joe for a ride with him back to college
some miles away, Dad suddenly said he never liked leaving home, going away like
I was doing then, leaving. That was
it. That comment I remember. It was almost a comment about his life in the
war.
He died way before his time. I’ve got his dark blue navy uniform. Can’t believe he ever could fit into
that! And then his various ribbons and
such. And a great picture of him on Guam
that I had copies made of and gave to my kids and my sister.
But I don’t have him. What else do I know of that time period? From Mom only over the years, really the
early years when I was very small, I heard that once he and Mom lived in Rhode
Island while Dad did something for the navy.
And when he shipped out, my grandmother rode a bus all the way there so
she could ride the bus back with Mom.
And then Dad worked in the
pentagon for a while, especially on records of those killed in air
crashes. I do know he never flew to
visit me ever, always driving.
I am so sorry he left this
earth before I was in Guam several times.
I even was in nearby Saipan where the Japanese tanks were still there by
the side of the road. Wonder if he was
there too? Who knows?
I miss him. Especially when life got difficult at times
over the years, I missed him and his quiet wisdom. At times I recall his throwing a baseball with
me or playing basketball, using his two-handed set shot I could never
understand. But life goes on. I do get misty when I see veterans or hear
their stories or even when I meet those young military of our day on their way
headfirst right into harm’s way. And I
wonder how prepared they are, beyond the training of course. How prepared to deal with all they will
encounter, not just the physical but the shockingly different cultural and yes
spiritual. How ready? And how ready was my dad?
Don’t know. But he and his
generation did keep the country going for a while longer, kept the great evil
surge at bay for a while. Obviously just
for a while. But they did their part in
that. I am proud of him, and I miss
him. If your dad is still alive, don’t
let the day pass without contacting him.
(June 2014)
Copyright © 2014 by John Newlin
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