My Father and Me – Two of a Kind

He couldn’t be there when I was born.  He was a B-17 ball turret gunner in World War II.

He was shot down over Rouen, France, and hidden by the French underground for 70 days. He was eventually rescued and returned home for a brief stay when I was eight months old.  Returning to duty for another year; I was three when he was finally discharged and settled in our first home. The bond was not there, but I was happy to have a Daddy!

As the years went by, he kept a distant and strict relationship with me. There was no special connection, be it our late start together, the society of the 50’s, or the busyness of his career and growing family. I never knew any different.

Ten years into my own marriage and children, Mom had a heart attack.

As I walked into the hospital after a long ride across the state, he grabbed me in a bear hug and held on forever, breaking down in tears while telling me she’d be okay. THIS was our moment. This is when our connection burst forth. We never mentioned it, but as life went on, he became more and more demonstrative with me, more interested and talkative. We were growing closer than we’d ever been.

Most women see their mothers reflected in themselves, but for me. . . it’s always been my dad.

I am my Father’s daughter! I look like him. I’m the oldest of four; my sister and brothers all resemble our mom. I love being outside. Gardening and long walks were two of his passions–mine too. I’m forever optimistic, but cautious. Clueless at the joke’s punch line, but falling into fits of giggles at not-always-funny things.  Just like my Dad. So many other traits I recall in my father, I can now see in myself.

The best of times were the laughing; totally losing it with gasps and giggles and glares from all around us. As close as my mom and I were, Daddy and I shared something special.   I was the first to get our Dad to open up about his World War II experiences. I worked alongside him in his yard each spring; rewarded with seedlings and plants for my own garden.

Over twenty winters spent on Myrtle Beach and along the Florida coast, Daddy discovered beach walking. For most of those winters, I made it a tradition to visit them for long weekends around Valentine’s Day.  He had me walking 4 to 6 miles in each direction. You know sand is not easy to walk in!

And he was in better shape than me. The rest of the seasons, he’d do the same thing in his suburban Detroit neighborhood; paying no attention to rain, wind, chilly or humid. Had to have his morning walk! As I wind up my sixth decade, I do 5 and 10K’s and walk on sand at our rental beach house in California.

He never slowed down because of aging. (Something my husband used to tell me if I whined about aches and pains.) Sure he had arthritis, surgeries and procedures that come with growing older, but he bounced back quickly every time. He made his fourth trip to Australia when he was 75.  He wrote my mom a birthday poem for every one of their 60 years together. I  too love to travel, and although I don’t do poetry. I’m a note writer; leaving love notes to my grandkids, thank you notes to the ladies at Cracker Barrel, the laundry lady and neighbors.

He was a workhorse well into his 80’s. He mowed his own lawn, cut down trees and cleaned the gutters on an early spring weekend.

And then, he came inside to do the vacuuming.  No big deal for Daddy; this was how he lived. Mom called 911 when he couldn’t catch his breath. We all went home, sure it was a heart attack based on family history. I flew in late and volunteered to sit with him during the night so the others could rest.  “It’s my lungs” he said. “Doc says my heart’s in good shape. I’ve been thrown a curve ball!” I held his hand and we laughed and reminisced and he told me his decision not to go on a ventilator.  I was still holding his hand when the beeping interrupted my dozing.

And he was gone. . . just like that.

Not only am I grateful that I had him so long, that we found our close bond; but that I could be there when he died. Mostly, I am proud and thankful to be who I am because of you, Daddy!

Read more from Joan Stommen on her blog, Gramcracker Crumbs