Father's Day 2020

My dad, on the left

It's not hard to see why my mother fell for this guy, back in the early 1940s, during World War II. In this undated picture, he's enjoying both a cigar and a beer with his fellow soldiers. Everyone looks so happy. I wonder how many of them went overseas to battle, never to return. Daddy was a Warrant Officer in the USAAF (US Army Air Force) and received a commission to Second Lieutenant some time later. I just looked up the rank of WO online and learned that they are considered to be highly trained technicians. Daddy always wanted to fly, but it wasn't until much later that he got the training to become a navigator on the huge air refueling bomber, the KC-135.

Somewhere in there, he met Mama at a USO dance and they had one of those wartime romances (I suppose; they never talked about it later) and married in November 1941. I was born in December 1942, the first of seven children.

Daddy was in the Air Force for many years after I was born, and I became one of those kids who never stayed in one place for long, as we followed Daddy from one air base to another. When I was just a toddler, Daddy began his first assignment at Ramey Air Force Base in Puerto Rico. We lived off base, and many of my playmates spoke Spanish, so I guess I picked up quite a bit, but I have never been fluent in the language. Daddy was often gone as I was growing up, in what was known as TDY (temporary duty) for as long as six months.

While Daddy was gone, my mother took up golf and became quite good at it. As a young child, I remember Daddy lamenting that all the golf trophies in our home had skirts. Both of my parents loved the sport, and Daddy continued to play long after retiring from the service. I don't remember Mama playing much in later years, but I know that it was a big part of their lives. My sister Norma Jean plays these days, but I've never had any aptitude for it and wonder what I might have missed.

Once my father retired from the Air Force, they bought a home in Fort Worth on the lake. My parents had also started a second family: my brother and two youngest sisters had a completely different life experience than that of the first three children, who moved constantly. They grew up in a town that became their home, something we, the older children, never experienced. For us, our home was wherever our parents lived.

Both of my parents were avid readers, which rubbed off on the older children. For fun, Norma Jean and I would sit around with a dictionary and look up new words. We had a full set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and I would spend hours at a time poring through a book, soaking up knowledge. But the volumes that we spent the most time with were the Childcraft books, which taught me to appreciate poetry, among other things. Who would have ever guessed that they would become obsolete, with the advent of the internet? Now everything is constantly changing and no print volumes could keep up.

Daddy was a soft-hearted soul, and I think it embarrassed him that he would tear up easily. He had difficulty reading stories to us, since he would get to an emotional part and jump up and leave the room, blowing hard into his handkerchief. Norma Jean and I would look at each other and smile. As if we didn't know why. It was not something that men in those days were allowed to do: crying was considered unmanly. Is it the same today? I sure hope not, but I don't know. My dear partner sometimes gets emotional while watching a sad TV episode, and maybe because of my father, I find it endearing.

Daddy had heart disease and died at 62, after experiencing a terrible heart attack that allowed him to live on for only a few days in the hospital. It was enough time for all of his children, scattered around the country, to get back home to say goodbye. I remember him sitting up in bed as I arrived to see him, and he seemed the same, except for the pinpoint pupils that were caused by strong morphine he was on. He knew that he wasn't going to make it, and he was emotional as he told us, each one, that he loved us. I think the last words I heard him say were "I love you all!" And then we were pushed out of the room.

There were so many of us that we were given our own waiting room area to stay in while we waited. It's been so long ago that I remember very little about it, except that we hoped for the best and expected the worst. Daddy died there in the hospital, still a young man in so many ways, and we were each left to mourn our own loss.

Daddy's life was, in total, a success. He raised six of us (one sister died soon after birth), along with Mama, to become productive and well-adjusted members of society. I am now fifteen years older than he was when he died, and I still miss him, usually on days like today, Father's Day. I am blessed to have him visit me occasionally in my dreams, and I know the love we all had for him will only die when all of us are gone, too.

And now it's time for me to finish up this post and start the rest of my day. I will enjoy it with a strong cup of coffee and a brisk walk, before settling down in my favorite chair and reminiscing about the exceptional man who was my father. I hope you will have a wonderful day and week ahead, before we meet here again next week. I wish you all good things, dear friends.