This is one of the times of the year I think about my dad. He was a veteran and as we approach Remembrance Day, he’s one I think about.
It took me becoming a more mature adult to appreciate dad for who he was. Our early life together was volatile. If I was to describe some of it without context, it would seem he wasn’t a gentle man.
He was a gentle man.
Dad was a WW2 veteran. He was part of the often almost forgotten Italian Campaign. Allied troops landed in Sicily and Italy about a year before D-Day. The ensuing battles were hard fought and bitter.
The longest Canadian campaign saw human costs on both side the highest of any WW2 campaign
Over 93,000 Canadians took part, over 25,000 were wounded or killed. Among the wounded was my Uncle Ken. Dad came through the war without physical wounds. War changes those who serve, often in ways they don’t even notice.
Having spent decades around veterans, I learned most who saw action rarely talk about their experiences. Dad was no exception. As a teen, I learned he was a veteran when I discovered boxes of medals in a drawer while putting laundry away.
Dad told three stories about his time overseas. He didn’t repeat them often. They were all related to his faith and reflected his belief he got through the war with the aid of a higher power not ready to take him home.
The Chaplain
One story wasn’t about him. He related how he had watched their much-respected chaplain sit calmly reading by a window. They were in a house near the front. One guy suggested to him it wasn’t a good idea to sit by the window. He was making himself a target for the Germans.
The chaplain looked up from his book, quietly telling the soldier, “son, if the good Lord wants me, he’ll take me. Until he does, I will read.” The unwavering faith of the Chaplain had a calming effect on the troops.
The Sniper
One of the other stories involved dad. Pinned down by sniper fire on a ridge during a patrol. After killing the sniper, dad’s buddy came running over to see how badly wounded dad was. Having gotten under cover, his buddy had watched the attack.
He’d watched dust and dirt kick up in the air around dad laying pinned down by gunfire. Dad didn’t have a scratch on him. An outline drawn by sniper’s bullets surrounded where dad laid.
The Bombed House
Dad and his comrades had been on a multiday patrol when they came upon a house they thought was behind the lines. They were exhausted after days of little sleep. The guys settled down in one of the two large rooms in the house to sleep.
The following morning they woke to shouting and the sounds of what seemed to be a frantic search happening. They stumbled outside to find out what was going on to discover that as they slept, the second room of the house had been bombed.
Where they slept was untouched. None of them even woke they were sleeping so deeply.
Dad also saw action in France, Holland and Belgium during the war. After the war ended he was briefly in Germany.
He returned to Canada. He got a job. Met my mother and in 1949, they married. In the early 1960s dad used some of his veteran benefits to buy a house in the country to house a young family. I spent most of my childhood with my four siblings in that house. We were two boys, three girls. I am the middle child, the eldest girl.
My earliest memories of dad were of a man who could be quiet, kind and often exploded in anger. The anger was unpredictable.
He worked hard to provide for the family. By day he was a driver/salesman for a firm that produced desserts. In his spare time, he earned extra cash as a paint and body man on cars.
It would be many years before I learned dad exhibited signs of PTSD. During a conversation with my uncle, he was telling me how dad had left a few jobs over his temper.
I asked him if dad had a temper before the war. He told me he didn’t remember him having one, confirming what I had already suspected. Dad wasn’t an angry man. He was a man wounded by the experiences of combat.
Our household regularly attended church. My parents were active Sunday School teachers and until our late teens, attendance was required. Sunday was Sunday School, followed by church.
Dad was a man of deep faith. He was not a man who preached or expected to sway others. He respected people no matter their faith. Or lack of it. I can remember him reminding me many times; there are many paths to faith, no path is superior to another.
He shared his faith through living it, not preaching it.
My early relationship with him was turbulent. I often lived up to the red-hair I’d been born with. If dad exploded in what I believed was unjust anger, I would stand my ground. We had many toe-to-toes. Neither of us willing to back down.
Dad came out of the spare the rod and spoil the child school of child-rearing. He would move to break my defiance with a raised hand. At that point mother would send us both to our corners, so to speak.
I was a young adult before my resentment and anger with his volatile temper cooled. A powerful bond developed between us. Well, I allowed what was already present to take root. Dad was always unwavering in his love of family.
We were a family of five siblings. Rivalry and squabbles happened. Our parents broke up squabbles when we were young. As adults, we muttered about each other without the squabbling.
Dad would listen to me muttering about a sibling. He didn’t take sides. If he could point out something I’d not considered that might let me see things in a different light, he’d do that. He wasn’t blind to our strengths and weaknesses, he never made us feel bad about our weaknesses.
His Unconditional Support
He never discouraged his girls from pursuing non-traditional activities. I went to college to take an engineering tech program. He was proud of me for doing it. He was also proud my brothers went into automotive mechanics. Likewise, my sister who went into nursing and my other sister who took a social worker program. We were his kids. He supported us unconditionally.
The Legion awarded my service to the branch and community with a Life Membership. Dad attended. I didn’t notice it, someone pointed out to me later. In a picture taken of dad, the President and I, dad looked so proud that it could have been him getting the award. It made me feel good.
If dad had taught me only one lesson, it would have been there was nothing I couldn’t learn to do. All I needed was the willingness to learn and to try. He taught that by example.
We often heard from mother about “that G-D house in Toyneville” The house was an unfinished one they had bought soon after they married. Dad was working full time. He knew nothing about doing carpentry, dry-walling, plumbing, electrical work. It would take 2–3 years for him to learn. After finishing the house, they sold it.
Over their course of his life, he would self-teach himself many things. There is furniture in my house today, built by dad. That includes my kitchen cupboards.
Among the many things he taught himself was to cook and bake. We enjoyed many lovely dinners prepared by him in his later years. His baking skills were superb.
The matriarch of the church I attended had occasion to marvel at those skills.
I’d been talking to dad one evening. Telling him about the ladies of the church preparing an upcoming tea fundraiser. They were seeking donations of cookies to distribute into tins they would sell at the tea.
A few days before the event, he showed up at my house and placed two large bags of cookies into my freezer. I watched him, curious. He knew I loved his baking. Alas, it was not what I needed in quantity.
He closed the lid. Informing me they were for the church. The night before the ladies needed them, I brought the cookies out. Placed them on the counter in the church kitchen. The next day Ada met me at the door, telling me of the several dozen cookies.
She puzzled over who donated them. I smiled and told her mystery solved. I had delivered them from my dad.
She was so caught up gushing about the cookies and dad having made them; I had to ask if their fundraiser was a success.
Dad didn’t want fanfare. He had some time, and he was happy to contribute. He’d have been happy if I’d not mentioned his involvement. Another thing dad taught me. The best good deeds are usually private.
Shadowspub is a writer from Ontario, Canada. She writes on a variety of subjects as she pursues her passion for learning. She also writes on other platforms and enjoys creating books you use like journals, notebooks, coloring books etc.
NOTE: unless otherwise stated, all images are the author’s
You can subscribe to Prompt A Day to get started.
@dreemport . Get eyes on your content and meet new friends.