Each November 3, I post a picture of my dad and write something long about him. It’s usually a story about growing up as a youngster or certain values he instilled in me. I was going to write something new I learned not long ago, but that can wait until another time.
Not this year. Just three photos, the non-color ones in 1952, the year I was born. Today, I mark my dad’s 104th birthday. I got him a gift for his birthday, the first in more than twenty years. My dad had two requests of me before he died.
The first was a military funeral. Typically, it would be handled locally, but I got a regular U.S. Army burial detail from Kentucky. The playing of Taps always overcomes me with emotion. Only a few things do. I remember my dad telling me the words when I was a kid.
The second was a bronze military marker recognizing his service in the Army Air Force in WWII. It took me over 21 years to complete it—such a simple request and easy to do. The delay is on me alone. But the plaque was affixed to his stone three days ago. My last earthly duty is now fulfilled, bringing closure and completion to his journey.
There are times I think about him more than other times: his birthday, certain holidays, the date of his death. Sometimes, out of the blue, I’ll think of him. The love between a father and his son is unique. A son gets guidance, support, and a silent understanding. It evolves.
It differs from what one shares with a mom, which is more nurturing, protective, and emotional. My dad was a stoic teacher. He taught me how to ride a bike, pitch, defend myself, persevere, and prepare for life outside the home—quiet pride by him and unspoken gratitude by me. The fruits of his labor will never be known to him because my odyssey continues.
What I know is his love for me continued until he drew his last breath. Mine for him will continue until I draw mine.