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and if everything that follows makes no sense, please understand I give you the biggest (((((hugs)))) from one dad's daughter to another....
My dad was born in 1925, in a reservation town at a time when any and everyone was ashamed to be "indian", "mixed race" or "non-white". Oddly enough, my g/g grandfather (from Switzerland) was not only a Justice of the Peace, but was a census enumerator and.... well, any/everyone with native heritage lied, basically.
My dad grew up in an odd world, a town called "Republic" with a mom who regularly told him that she'd have preferred a girl...
His mum was his world. She had a swing band and played/performed at county fairs and other local festivities... my dad learned soft shoe and tap-dance (well, I might add!) by the time he was five. By the time he entered high school, his mum was diagnosed and died of uteran (or ovarian) cancer. I have no record other than her diary, and she was never specific, except dealing with my dad...I'm told I look like her more than anyone, perhaps that made my dad's relationship with me more difficult. I think she had serious issues....
My dad lied about his age so he could join the Navy. His intent was to become a physician, and the only job he ever spoke of during his time w/the Navy was that of identifying cadavers on the battlefield - even having to dig into a fallen soldier's chest to retrieve his dog tag. I can find no record of his service.....probably because he lied about his info. I don't know. All I have are records of his housing costs, and that he was part of "pre-med" physician's program, and certificates of his passing some hospital/military course, supposedly being a step closer to med school.... (I don't know - he passed something in the Navy's Hospital school... ). I have that and a US Navy Medical service record underscoring his "pre-med" objective of giving names to the young boys torn apart on any given hillside, some who his unit didn't get to until several days later... It affected him, but he never saw combat. Yah.
He was in France - not sure of the specific dates, but my mum's uncle Hugh William Ward died in July '44 in the south of France - a signalman who's jeep ran over a mine, killing him. I finally found *him* in a small formal burial ground in southern France... he wasn't an American soldier, he was a Brit (he was conceived in France, and his mum smuggled him to NY through Ellis Island, and all that did was make it difficult for him to claim citizenship in his native Somerset (UK), France or US... but he was a patriot and died for his country - all of them... perhaps.
He super-used the GI Bill - enrolling/taking classes at 14 odd schools, including the Sorbonne, Columbia and NYU for starters. While at NYU he was noted in the paper as being a star of the social scene - given his "continental air", his ability to have parties where one would discuss philosophy and poetry, while he played jazz/swing on the piano... and naively mentioned that he shared his very cool apartment (not the one in Paris) with a professor... for quite a while. Back then, it just made him seem more cool and debonair. In fact, he was just royally gay. (I love you, Dad... <g> . ).
My dad grew pot. Lots of it. I spent many moments (uselessly) being mad at him for having me help him 'harvest' the stuff, tying it in bunches and hanging them upside down along the banister of the back stairs. Then when dry, putting them in big black bags (that he's later sift,I guess and separate into smaller packages in the freezer in the mud room). I was very popular in high school for some reason.
But I shouldn't have bothered with so much of my story, but... it's my dad. I'm sure you get that. (I'd smile if I could).
My dad died in April 1994 - and I found him. Your story struck me hard in your describing your dad saying "Damn it!" to the snooze alarm...
On "that" morning... I'd driven over 8 hours to/from the Yale/New Haven clinic (for AIDS trials - yah, my daddy had AIDS,damnit). He was always awake early and the first time I'd spent the night in the home I grew up in - the phone rang.... and he didn't answer. The machine clicked on.... and he never answered. We'd had a lovely dinner and sang baudy French songs driving home the night before....
... but he didn't answer.
I was his only daughter - (as my mom would say, his "favorite" daughter... right, Mum, good one). He was a gay patriot - terrified of combat but took honor in the macabre task of sweeping the field after battle, and identifying the fallen, most of whom were his age (boys) at best... some of whom were not recognizable as human, sometimes having to pull dog tags from deep within their blasted torsos.. He never talked about his duty beyond one day when he described what he did... he never made it to med school - his goal. He ended up in child psychology (and he really wasn't the best candidate for that profession... too many demons) : ).
My dad may not have lived as honorable a life as your dad did.... but your story - as the only daughter - struck a chord with me, as did your laser-like memory of "that" moment... and in that, I relate as a daughter and the loss of Dad.
My dad has yet to have an honorable burial, I still have his ashes... we don't have the $$ to bury him in the plot next to his mum in Republic - even though the pastor waived any/all burial fees - years ago. But I think it still holds, as the family name is well regarded in that small town... Someday, we'll honor my dad there... I hope. : )
The thing that I honor my dad most for - was not his service (guess it was a good thing he wasn't asked and didn't tell - good grief....) but for his moving back to the reservation for the sole reason of building/creating a mental health center for his fellow tribe members. He did it, and now (per Google street view) the building hasn't changed much, but seems to be a walk in/urgent care clinic. Undoubtedly the rez needs it, but my dad was really dedicated to improving the mental health of fellow members... If he helped someone, that's good. If only it had been him... : )
Sorry for speaking too long. Our fathers - and their daughters... there is something so priceless there....
I'm so happy for you that your memories and connection with your dad are gracious and honorable....
I've had to hide what my dad was... and that has always felt wrong - from the moment he told me he was gay, til today while I still haven't been able to take him home.... it's all secret. I had to tell my mother, who took an AIDS test per her md.... even though it had been 20 years. Damn it. I hate that damn virus.
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