Memories of a Hero

My father served with pride and honor in World War II.  He rarely talked about the cruelties and horror of war.  Instead, he focused on the camaraderie, the people he met in places like France, and the daily hardships of surviving in war torn countries.  He was an older father who insisted his kids kept him young.  He looked and acted so young that most people were shocked to find out that he was 70 when my youngest brother graduated from high school.  He worked hard his entire life, something of an  A personality who found joy in creating.  He was a dreamer and I believe the love of my mother's life.  He passed in the spring of 2000 and he would have been 100 years old in July. 

I miss him dearly.  He could tell a story with a twinkle in his steel blue eyes, his laughter came quick and his passion flamed with a fire that could burned hot.  He had a salty tongue, but was as gentle as the flowers he'd pick and present to mom. 

I think of him every day, but especially today as the country honors those who served in wars and those who died with services, picnics, flags unfurled and flying.  His uniform still hangs in the closet at my brother's home.  His Cleveland Indian baseball cap sits atop my desk.  He's everywhere  and anywhere I or my five siblings wander. 

Here's to you, dad...our hero.