To Our Fathers

I feel old. Not like my hips are about to give "old", but like what I would have called an "old person" when I was a kid, "old". In some ways I hope this is a mid-life crisis because I'd be a wreck when it really did happen, but in other ways I'd much rather live to be older than 54 (27 * 2 for those without a calculator). I already know whats causing it, and as much as I've planned the important things in my life, I didn't see this one coming until it hit me. You see, I'm rapidly approaching the age my father was when I was born. That would be meaningless if I was nothing like my dad, but I am exactly like my dad, from my interests to my weaknesses to my sense of humor. The issue isn't that I'm like my dad, thats actually a good thing, its that I've seen what somebody thats exactly like me does from this age on. Its almost as though I've already seen the rest of my life through my dad's eyes, and the rest of his through my grandfather's eye's. Its not so much a question of what will happen during my life, its more a question of who I will be in my life. For the last few years that has scared the hell out of me, but the closer it gets, the more I feel ready for it.

Like most people my age, PawPaw (my grandfather) was in World War II. It was a time when an entire generation of young men left for war. War. Not summer camp. Not prison. War. PawPaw was drafted and sent to the front lines in France and Germany after D-Day. He didn't talk much about how he felt, only what happened. He'd talk about laying in a foxhole and watching his best friend die next to him after being hit by a mortar (while in the same foxhole). He'd talk about funny moments like how he'd trade rations for local Schnapps, or serious moments; this guy or that guy who "bought the farm" for various reasons. He always seemed to deliver just the facts, and wouldn't talk about what it meant to him, but I took notice that when he talked about his fallen friends, he never seemed to mention "them." It was always "we."

It was only a few years ago that PawPaw developed a brain aneurism that changed his personality and ability to function throughout the last year of his life. Sure, it was sad, but more or less, I chalked it up to a part of life. It was my father and how he dealt with it that affected me so deeply. To my dad, taking care of PawPaw was almost an obsession. It was what he had to do, regardless of how difficult it was. Knowing how my father cared for me when I was younger, and understanding how alike my dad and grandfather were, all I could see when I would watch my dad take care of PawPaw was myself caring for my dad in the future, and I knew I would.

At PawPaw's funeral I wasn't uneffected, but it really wasn't that difficult. We had the wake, we carried the casket, and even said some words at the funeral. They left $1.04 in his pocket (3 quarters, 2 dimes, a nickle and 4 pennies) because he always wanted to make sure he had any combination of coins he could possibly need, and as sentimental as that was, it didn't get to me. I was completely fine.

Right before the funeral ended the seven WWII vets from the VFW fired the 21 gun salute. Like a slow-motion replay, it was then that I first understood why PawPaw always said "we." PawPaw had put his life into the hands of his friends and his friends had put their lives into PawPaw's hands, but he fealt it was he who hadn't lived up to the promise. He'd been living his life for those who didn't have the chance to, and the honor and dignity of it hit me like a ton of bricks. I looked over at my dad and saw the same honor and dignity in how he cared for PawPaw and I knew who I was going to become. And I cried. Hard.

I've seen who I'm going to become, and I'm so ready to keep the family's unspoken tradition of honor and dignity. These great men have made me who I am.
So every now and then, I'll pour some Schnapps, raise my glass...

To our fathers