Veteran, Father, Husband, Man

Armistices Day, known in the United States as Veterans Day began on November 11, 1918, the day World War I came to a screeching halt. Guns were thrown down, parades celebrating the end of fighting erupted, and the world began to move toward life without war.

Veterans day is about the men and women who are serving, or have served and are still living.

So on Veterans Day, I remember and honor my father, a living veteran of the United States Air Force. I don’t know too much about my father’s service, or what he did for America. He kept this portion of his life private, perhaps to protect his children from the grim reality of a soldier’s duty. Strangely, I hear more stories about the Air Force when he is sharing “war stories” with a few of my friends who are currently serving.

While I don’t have a clear picture of my father’s service, I do remember certain specific details. I clearly recall that he sometimes wore a green, one-piece flight suit that he called “The bag.” Closer to the end of his career, he mostly wore tidy, dark blue slacks and a crisp, light blue, short-sleeve shirt. One snowy grey day, my grade school sent the students home early. The roads were horribly slippery. My bus lost traction and ground to a complete stop while negotiating a steep up-hill stretch. My father happened upon the bus, while in his blues, and asked the driver if he could help. Yes! was the answer. In a few short minutes my father had spread enough sand under the wheels of the bus get us going safely. As the bus slowly labored away, I remember looking out the steamy window to see my father standing, ready, at the side of the road incase the bus’s progress stalled again. This was the type of soldier my father was, and I was never so proud.

Today, he is soldiering in a different battle. Daily, he struggles to care for my mom who suffered a debilitating stoke several years ago. She is paralyzed on the left side of her body and suffers near total speech and writing limitations. Without my father, my mom could not survive outside a cold, impersonal, long-term care institution.

He is her daily savior. He tenderly checks her blood three times a day (due to her diabetes) and logs the results in a hand written chart of his own making. He cooks, cleans, mows the lawn when it’s not flooded and feeds the dog. He talks on the telephone in speakerphone-mode so my mom can hear, and so he can add color or needed explanation to supplement her five-word vocabulary. He effective translates an ever-growing non-verbal language, which they share, including the many meanings of my mom’s favorite spoken word, “Zahugh.” As I encourage my father to chop off the few remaining holdouts on his failing comb-over, he assists my mom to color her hair as she always has. They shop on Tuesdays, gamble and have lunch out on Wednesdays and make hair or doctors appointments on Thursdays. Of course, in all activities, my dad patiently totes a heavy wheelchair, assists my mom in and out of the car and generally helps her get to where they are going.

He never asks for help.

They are two people, my dad and mom, but these days it is truly as though they function as one unit. My dad’s Air Force sensibility will bristle at this next sentiment. My father truly is an army of one. This is the type of soldier, father, husband and man he is, and I’ve never been so proud.