Sixteen years ago my father died at 79 of a combination of things that had robbed him of vitality for several years prior.
The last night we talked, he spoke in halting terms about a boy he had treated on a beachhead during the June 1944 invasion of Normandy. Dad was with a medical detachment that prepared wounded soldiers for transport back to England.
The boy had suffered grave abdominal wounds.
“He asked me not to let him die,” Dad recalled. “I knew he was going to.”
A few minutes later, Dad lapsed into unconsciousness, never to recover.
Just as the wartime incident came to his memory then, his telling me about it comes to me each Father’s Day.
Dad started faring for himself while a student at Iola High School, living and working at St. John’s Hospital east of Iola and often walking into town to attend classes.
Consequently, he never played any sports other than army ball, as he called it, while in grade school. The only games he ever saw in person were ones I played, and later those of grandson Bob.
To dad, work came first. And saving as much as possible was his mantra.
Even so, he was generous, particularly after working his way into a good-paying job at Monarch Cement. He bought me a Lionel train, a Schwinn bicycle and my first baseball glove, a first baseman’s mitt that I still have.
There were times when we didn’t communicate well, in large measure I think because I had a little more liberal view of the world. But, in later years, we drew closer. He was fond of seeing my deer-hunting and trapping successes, and I think liked to brag a little on what I did.
I still miss the opportunity to call Dad to tell about this, that or whatever. Which leads me to this admonition: Don’t let the hustle and bustle of today’s fast-paced living get in the way of taking time for family.
Sunday is Father’s Day. Every day should be.
Dad made family a priority
