My dad

My dad was a great man, but his greatness was in his humanity, being one of millions of patriotic, God fearing, and family loving men of that generation that is passing away. He did not have a fancy job or lots of money, or power over others, and he would not have wanted any of those things. His parents owned a small hotel in a rural area, so he tended the property, was bar tender and bouncer, and dropped out of school in 8th grade to work there. He enjoyed the outdoors, loving dogs fervently, and sports like bowling. He married and apparently they were like the "battling Bogarts" and that led to their divorce. It was at that time that he enlisted in the US Army paratroopers in 1943 in order to fight in World War II. At that time he was forty years old, and had to falsify his birth certificate to enlist! Everyone called him "Pop" because of his gray hair (he had a lot of gray hair even from his twenties, as do I.) He was 5' 6" tall, weighed just over 140 pounds, yet carried the 100 pound back pack, jumped out of airplanes while Germans shot at them, and his first battle was The Battle of the Bulge. He carried a rosary and his Holy Confirmation prayer book, but he also drank the whiskey that his mom sent him disguised in Vitalis hair tonic bottles. He smoked three packs of Camels a day, and that's what eventually caught up with him after the war. He received the Purple Heart for being shot through the arm and after a short time in a hospital, was promoted to sergeant and sent back to battle with a cast on his left arm. His favorite weapon was what they called a "grease gun." While leading a charge up a snow covered hill, he lost his front teeth as the hill concealed an armored vehicle and a German hit him in the mouth with the butt of his rifle. As the German turned his rifle to shoot and kill my father, one of my father's buddies shot the German and saved his life. My father was in the liberation of Belgium, and then the crossing of the Rhine and the defeat of Germany. He took photographs and wrote faithfully and lovingly to his parents and nephew every day, sometimes multiple times a day. He would only say that some days were "busy" because he never wanted them to worry. A photo of him sitting on his gloves in the snow and warming his hands appeared on an army magazine. After Germany fell he was stationed in Berlin where he met the woman who would become his wife and my mother. He would see her walking her 3 year old boy and asked her out, and was very kind to my brother, adopting him when they were all back in the states. His father died while my dad was in the service, so he went home early and missed all the parades and honors in NYC for the 101st and 82nd, in which he served. The hotel was sold and my dad worked as a night watchman and deputy sheriff (in those days many military men returned to go directly into some police or fire work on a volunteer basis, that's the way it was then.) I was born in 1953, his first and only biological child and he was shocked but thrilled. My mother was shocked and not thrilled. My dad worked nights and made up for it by driving me to school in the morning. We would end most days with a walk around our small backyard, visiting each tree and bush, which I had named, and wishing them good night. He donated $200, a huge amount for poor people in those days, to the building of the Catholic elementary school. But he still smoked those three packs of Camels a day, and ate a lot of fattening food, and enjoyed his beers. He was on medication for his growing heart condition, but one night he forgot to take it, coming home from work in the middle of the night. He died that night of a heart attack. That was February 1, 1962. I'm very lucky that I had a great father for the years that I did. And I'm even more lucky that I have an amazing ability to remember people and events as far back as when I was a baby in the cradle. So I have quite a store of memories to draw upon of my years when my father was alive. I remember many things from when I was just a toddler, including conversations, which I understood completely even before I could talk. So while it was heartbreaking to lose my dad, I remember him and all he loved me vividly. My older cousin would fill me in on war stories and so forth; things that I was too young to hear about while he lived. So my knowledge of my dad is pretty complete. Some people think my dad was someone that he is not, but that's a topic for a different post, because that just enrages me and I want to leave this post full of the positivity and love that my dad represented and lived.