My father was a cornerstone of my life. For many years, like most youth, it didn't occur to me. Until the birth of my oldest child. Then, a lot of what he had done started to make sense to me. There were some things that didn't but those were the things that made him, uniquely, him.
My father was an Air Force Combat Medic. A rare thing. When he was in Vietnam, he would go out into the bush with his partner, Charlie, and a handful of South Vietnamese soldiers. They would treat the local villages for things like dysentery and other illnesses. They knew that the North Vietnamese would come into the village for treatment for themselves. They also knew that the North Vietnamese soldiers would always take their medicines by color, not by effect. So, they would hide laxatives among the colors of pills that they knew they would take. He never told me much else about Vietnam, I did glean from him that there was a betrayal and an ambush at one point, but that was as far as I got.
My father would flashback, as many combat veterans did. You stood to the side and touched his foot, and only his foot. He would sit up quickly and be completely awake. I recall one time I forgot this and touched his shoulder. He came out of that chair like he was on fire, grabbed me by my shirt collar, lifted me up and realized who I was. He put me down, shaking and very upset. I never forgot that lesson, I always followed his rule for waking after that.
We came out of our bedroom in 1969, I think it was. He was sitting in his chair drinking Tiger Beer and the floor was covered in balloons that he had blown up. We spent the morning playing with balloons and laughing with our Dad. At birthday parties, he would put an unlit candle in his mouth, make a funny face and spit out 3 candles. He'd let you look in his mouth, grinning at you, then, do it again.
We'd play Monopoly every Friday night with him, He'd always win. I learned years later that that was because he cheated. Which was and is okay. After the Monopoly game, we'd watch the "scary movies". Godzilla, Mothra, Rodin, The Gorgon, The Day The Earth Stood Still, Frankenstein Created Woman. Later, when we got older, we'd play Risk, as well. Which ended when my youngest sister started playing and discovered "Thermonuclear War". Meaning, she'd throw the board.
My father's father died when he was 9. It left a hole in his life that he didn't quite know how to fill. He was given a hard row to hoe, and didn't really know how to be a Dad. Of course, none of us really does until we do the job but, he had it harder because his father died when he was so very young. He grew into the job.
I remember him teaching me how to split wood with an axe and with a maul and with a wedge. Taught me how to use a saw properly.
I startled him more than once, the time I most remember, he was fixing the porch around the outside of the house. He wanted to rotate a column into place, but the roof of the porch was pinching down too much to do it. I had been lifting weights for quite a while at that point and I was fearsome strong, I got on the ladder, put my shoulders under and lifted it just enough for him to rotate it in. He was surprised.
The day he died, I was asleep. It was 2:17 AM on April 27, 2019 and the phone rang. I just barely heard it but phone calls at that time are never good news, are they? I saw it was from Maine so I called it back. My youngest brother said that Mom had come down to get my father to come up to bed and he was non-responsive. He performed CPR but it was too late. My sisters were there, my Mom, my brother. The older of the two sisters said that he had a smile on his face. That she sat there, holding his hand, while they were waiting for the coroner.
What did he die of? I don't know. He had underlying health problems but he was healthier than he had been in months. He hadn't been having problems with his breathing, which was miraculous as it was spring and pollen was everywhere. My best guess is that his heart gave out and that he went peacefully, probably not even aware that he was gone. I like to think that his mother or his father came and got him, or perhaps my mother's mother. He always loved her.
I gathered my children and my partner and we drove up to Maine. It was a long, long trip. It always is, To quote my ex-wife: You drive to Maine and you think you're done, then you drive forever. It is 5-6 hours from the southern tip of Maine to Presque Isle through some of the emptiest scenery you will ever see. North of Bangor, you lose your phone service, you don't get it back until Houlton. Which is at the end of I95, you then drive 40 miles north to Presque Isle.
We went to the memorial the next day. He was so still. I kept expecting him to open his eyes and go "Gotcha!", which would be a douchey thing to do but he would think it was funny. Come to think of it, once I got over it, I would too. Like Father, Like Son, no? But, no, he didn't move. His hands were carefully placed in a neutral kind of position, with the finger tips touching above his chest. My Mom had him dressed in jeans, a t-shirt (without a stain on it) and a denim overshirt. There was no overt make up so he looked...like himself. Just very, very still. I said good bye to him and I cried a little. When we left the funeral home, I went over one more time gripped his shoulder as I always had and said "Okay, bye, Daddy. I love you." and left without looking back again.
There was a gathering with the family. His wife, his children, most of his grand children, most of his great grandchildren, those that we had adopted into our already large family were there, too. Adopted sons and daughters all brought together by a remarkable man. We celebrated and we cried we had fun and we mourned. We left for home the next morning. It was a long drive.
The sad hits me more today. I find myself thinking that I'll give him a call on how to use this angle grinder to take off the top of a metal door then, it hits me: I can't. He's not there any more. I am a problem solver by nature, like he was. I cannot fix this. I wish I could.
I miss you Dad.
