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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