Memorial Day: My Father

Yesterday was Memorial Day, and I spent a portion of the day thinking about my dad. My dad was 40 years old when I (his first child) was born (my mom was 21 -- go daddy!), and from my point of view, he loved nothing more than getting to be a father. He indulged me (and left my mother to try to control me, a task that, unfortunately, was sometimes beyond her. I pray my children will not put me through the things I put her through. Zippy already scares me sometimes). But I digress... Memories of my father:

• Dad sitting out on the carport at the picnic table. Dad smoked outside, because mom is allergic to smoke. Daddy would sit outside with the paper or a book and smoke, and was always available when we wanted to talk.
• Dad buying cat food for the cat that adopted us. We were NOT going to have a cat, no sir, but since it kept coming around, we might as well feed it instead of letting it starve. (My mom bought cat food within a day or two of my dad doing so.) Timmy the cat eventually became an inside cat, and he was a Very Good Cat. Timmy would hold a Dorito between his paws and lick off all the cheese and then take tiny bites of the chip. I had no idea back then how cool this was.
• Dad picking me up from gymnastics practice when I'd badly sprained my ankle. I was somewhat of a drama queen as a child, and when the call came that I'd been injured, he didn't rush to come get me. When he got to the gym, my ankle and the bottom of my foot were black and blue, and swollen with blood. Yuk. The look on his face was pure shock. And I remember that he wanted to carry me up the stairs (the gym was in the basement of a strip mall, down about 60 stairs), but couldn't. 12 year olds are generally too big to carry.
• Playing catch with my dad in the yard. I'm sorry if you don't have a similar memory. Dad was always good for a catch.
• Road trips. Dad would drive, mom would read. I remember one time we were going God Knows Where, and it was raining like hell. I wanted to talk, and my dad wanted me to be quiet. I kept talking, and my dad was not happy. I don't know exactly what was said, but I do remember finally looking through the front windshield and seeing what he could see. Pretty much a wall of water. I shut up.
• Driving my dad to the hospital when he was diagnosed with pneumonia. I wish I'd known it could kill him. I wish I'd known he wouldn't come home. He'd never been sick before in my memory, and it just was not possible that he wouldn't be okay. Unfortunately, it wasn't simple pneumonia (or even complex pneumonia), it was Legionnare's Disease.

My dad was a WWII vet who served in France. He was injured after only about six weeks overseas, and spent over 18 months recovering from his injuries. I could feel the shrapnel still in his body - near his elbow. He did not like to talk about what happened, but it's my understanding that he was not involved in a battle - he was out investigating the area near where his troop was, and a bomb went off. My aunt told me that he'd said that he never thought he'd be stupid enough to try to dig his way into a tank, but after the bomb went off, that's what he tried to do. He was evacuated from the area and sent to an American hospital in France, where he was put back together.

As the story goes, he'd been in the hospital for several weeks when he asked the doctor when he'd be able to walk again. The doctor told him, "any time you're ready," to which dad's response was, "even though I can't feel my leg?" WHOA. Turns out they'd missed a piece of shrapnel behind his knee, and things were not good. Thus the long recovery period. Dad never fully recovered -- most of the time he didn't limp, but when it got to hurting, it was not pleasant for him.

Dad died on June 13, 1983, but it still feels like yesterday. I miss him terribly and wish that he had been here for so many things. I feel his presence sometimes.