“It is, I
believe, the greatest generation any society has ever produced.” (Tom Brokaw, 1940 --)
My father
was born in Kansas City on May 4th, 1919. He was the middle of three sons born to
immigrant parents. His mother died when
he was 5 years old. He subsequently
moved from town to town as his father went from job to job. When his father couldn’t afford otherwise, he
and his brothers were sent back to K.C. to live with aunts and uncles.
During
the Great Depression, when my father was 16 years-old, he moved to Houston,
finding work as a shoe salesman. He discovered he was good at it. He then briefly attended the University of
Texas but had to leave school abruptly in order to avoid trouble from a
gambling scheme gone bad.
He subsequently
enlisted in the Army. He was stationed
in San Francisco when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He applied and was accepted into Officer Candidate School. He joined the Army Air Corp and
completed training as a B-17 bombardier.
It was during his training at Lowry AFB in Denver where he met my
mother.
In the
months preceding D-Day, my father flew 25 missions over France and Germany. Among his honors, he earned the Air Medal, the
Distinguished Flying Cross, and the Purple Heart. He served in a unit that had over 40%
casualties. When on leave, his plane and
crew were shot down.
My father
and mother married in Oct. 1944. Shortly
thereafter, my father was honorably discharged from the service. Back in Denver, he opened Boxer’s Steak
House. He and his older brother ran the
restaurant for twenty years. Initially the restaurant did well but began to
fail in its final ten years.
When I
was approximately 12 years old, my father sold the restaurant. A few years later he opened The Antique
Trader, finding success in the antique and used furniture business. He was
never happier than when he was in one of his stores or at an auction. The stores were open seven days-a-week. Unless forced to do so, he never took a day
off. He didn’t want to. He continued working every day well into his
80’s.
My
parent’s marriage lasted over 60 years, but it was not a happy marriage, at
least not while I was growing up. My father was the classic workaholic, though for him his work was his play.
As a
young child I remember my father teaching me how to catch a ball and how to
ride a bike. I remember him asking me my
spelling words and checking my homework.
As I got older, we interacted less and less. There were never any arguments or harsh words
spoken between my father and me. But
neither were there any meaningful heart-to-heart conversations. Once, when my father nearly died from an
ulcer, he wrote down his feelings about me and my sister, expressing his love. Ordinarily, he never shared his feelings. My sister and I were at a loss to know what
to do with his new-found demonstrativeness. However, once recovered he quickly
reverted to his old self.
When in
High School, or home from college, I would occasionally work at the store
driving the delivery truck. My father would
get very short and impatient with me. The
message was clear. I was not going to continue in the family business. My sister and her husband would fill that
role. I was expected to continue my
education.
I tried
at times, in his last years, to engage my father in dialogue. My effort was hindered by his refusal to wear
a hearing aid. I would start the
conversation. “What did you say?”, was his
usual response. I had some evidence to
suggest that his poor hearing was, in part, selective and that he could hear better
than he let on.
My father was largely about three traumas; the death of his
mother, the depression, and the war. He learned
to build a protective wall, always in control and never allowing himself to get
too close. He could be very generous, but he could never accept the generosity
of others. He was afraid to love and was uncomfortable being loved. He was
self-contained, finding fulfilment in his work, but not in his family.
My father’s wall could not be breached, not by me. He died October 15th, 2012.
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