My father was born in 1920. His father left one year later, never to return.
Dad was raised by his mother and aunt. He was ten when the great depression hit his world. He eventually left school to find work. He joined the CCC, and later enlisted in the U.S. Army – a truck driver in the 262 Infantry.
His battle and campaign credentials include: Normandy, Ardennes (the Bulge), Northern France, and Rhineland. He brought home some cool memorabilia. We seven kids destroyed it, as the war could not.
Dad did not like to talk about the war, except for the cases of wine diverted from the brass, or the time he chauffeured Omar Bradley. He said the captured Germans seemed just like them. Only they were on the losing side.
He died when he was sixty.
Each Memorial Day my parents had a picnic. It was an open house and lasted late into the night.
The following poem is about my father and makes reference to such an occasion:
Dad Wore Hats
Not when he should have.
On a cold bright day
he would call out
where is your hat?
while the wind played
in his hair.
Nor the way he should have.
It was always
crunched atop his head
by a nephew or daughter
running around our backyard
at a picnic.
Nor what he should have.
Into the dewy night
the adults would sing,
heads touching in harmony -
dad smoking a Chesterfield
wearing a bonnet.
Posted by qazse 
