Father's Day 2010

Today (June 18) marks the 15th year my Dad has been gone. He died on Father's Day. In many ways, it seems longer than that. In fact, in many ways it "was" longer than that. My dad spent far too many years "gone." Dad lost his own father when he was a child of about 10. He never stopped missing him. when I began my interest in genealogy, he pinned great hopes on my ability to discover his father' story. I never did. Granddad had been a travelling salesman when he met my Grandmother and stole her heart. Theirs was not a very happy marriage. From what I understand, he was a gifted taxidermist, a hunter, a fisherman, a nature lover. He was also an abusive alcoholic.

My Grandmother never knew anything about his past nor his family.

Grandma was a model woman of her day. She represented everyone's ideal - she was a gifted musician, she played piano for the silent movies, and played piano and organ for the little country church where she was a devoted, active congregant. She was always plump and her hugs were like being enveloped in a duvet, her laughter was contagious and hearty. She adored her children and raised them within a strong family unit - her dad, who died too young, her mom, both of whom were Welsh, her aunts, her sisters, her brothers. They had little in possessions, but they were a very loving family.

Grandma's daughter, Joyce, my Dad's older sister, died at about 13 of a congenital heart condition.

As a young man, my Dad developed terrible abdominal pain. He finally went to the family Dr. who diagnosed appendicitis and before Dad reached the hospital, his appendix burst. He very nearly died. He was assigned full time nursing care and fell madly in love with one of his nurses. Julia was old school. One simply did not date a patient. But Dad was a romantic - and persistant. Mom told me stories of walking along the sidewalk and a car following slowly, driver calling "when will you go out with me, Nursie?" He sent flowers and candy. finally she gave in.

When WWII began, Dad signed up. He left his tight knit family and his young wife and went to war. He often told the story of arriving in England and being given an address for the home in which he would be put up. He knocked on the door. An English woman answered, and when he began to tell her why he was there, she gestured to the stairs, said "upstairs" and that was the end of their conversation. He was exhausted and climbed the stairs eager for a wash and bed. All that stood in the room was a bedstead, with bare springs. He thought there must be some mistake. He went down to ask about the bed and the woman snapped "they said I had to put you up, they didn't say I had to make you comfortable." He was in shock. Never could he imagine his own mother saying such words to anyone, not even to a stranger.

During Dad's service, he landed on the Normandy beaches on D-Day.

And during his many hours in foxholes, he handcarved this frame and carried my picture and one of my mother and me throughout the war. In his hand around the frame are the names of places in which he served.