I mentioned in a comment yesterday that Boxing Day would have been my father's 88th birthday. On his last birthday he was diagnosed with the cancer that killed him 4 days later. He was a stoic SOB.
I was almost 2 when we met. Having served in the Navy during WW2 he joined the Marine reserve battalion his friends belonged to. He then talked his wife's brothers into signing up too. Using the lure of free work clothes and beer money as an inducement is how his BIL's teased his enlistment speech. They followed him wherever he wanted to go. Once the menfolk signed up, their unit was activated during summer camp and shipped out to Korea. I was born while he was away. After being wounded several times the Marines made him a Drill Instructor, his smokey bear hat my oldest memory of him.
He was a dude who never met a stranger, always drove convertibles. 6'3" skinny as a rail. Forsook a pro pitching contract to get married. He worked for one company his entire adult life. I never, ever saw him wear anything other than a suit to work, with a hat until the late 60's, and no one ever saw him in shorts.
I was hardly my father's son. We had little in common, I hated sports, he loved them, we disagreed about the major things, which it turned out he was right and I was wrong. I loved him and he loved me and that was enough for each of us. Twenty five years gone hardly a day goes by when I don't think to call him about something, then remember I can't. I miss him, and likely always will.
Toad
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