I pass the photos of Americas Heroes at Walmart and stop and study them. There are men and women, in sepia tones and bright colors.
I know I should bring Daddy’s photo out.
He was young and handsome--or at least I think so and so must have my mother. Through his military photos I can see him change from a young fresh-faced 18-year-old who joined the Army Air Corps right out of high school to a seasoned Master Sergeant five years later. He and his crew of airplane mechanics followed Patton across Europe, fixing downed planes, flying them back behind the lines. They weathered the Battle of the Bulge by covering their crew truck with a tarp and getting under a bridge, letting snow bury them as German soldiers marched overhead.
He survived World War II and so did every one of his crew. He was the leader and the youngest man on it.
But he’s not going to survive Alzheimer’s. It’s been four years since I’ve written about him, about my “Timex watch” which keeps on ticking through a broken hip and several trips to the ER for falls and injuries from them. He’ll be 88 in August and he smiles vacantly at me and wants to rearrange how I hold my hands and feet when I visit him, that’s if he acknowledges me at all.
“Who am I, Daddy?”
He laughs in answer.
He has two surviving brothers, both born when he was well on his way to adolescence. They didn’t know him until they were all adults. They live in Pennsylvania and Arizona and I know them very little.
But one set came through last week, moving from the warm Southwest back to the state of their births. It would seem a contrary move, but they assured me it’s for the best. They’ll be near family. The family they wanted to see while here was Daddy.
I warned them he wouldn’t know them; he hadn’t been sure who they were six years ago. No matter. They weren’t seeing him for his sake, but for their own.
We sat around a table which I had had to encourage Daddy to move to. We went through our routine of questions and laughter and then I made sure he saw his guests.
“Brother,” my uncle said and reached for his hand. Daddy shook it, something he does with everyone. Some lifelong habits never leave; he was the consummate salesman.
I don’t know my uncle well, but I do know I saw him change. My aunt told me they wouldn’t have recognized Daddy, his physical appearance has altered so.
Should they not have seen him? No. It was good for all of us, even Daddy, sharing a few minutes of a little extra love.
As we were leaving, he was moving back to the couch I’d moved him from. He settled in beside a new friend, crossed his arms, and stared in the direction of the TV. He didn’t know we’d been there.
I love you, Daddy. That’s what I say as I kiss your bald head (trust me, I grew up in a household where bald was beautiful) when I leave each time, grateful that you’re safe and warm and well-fed in a facility you earned the right to be in.
I know they call it Father’s Day, but all I ever had was a Daddy.
Happy Daddy’s Day. To all of you, and especially to the ones who’ve forgotten they ever had occasion to celebrate.
Me? I took a photo to Walmart. 52 columns from the left, sixth photo from the bottom.
Meet my daddy.
