Until I went home last August, I hadn't been home since 2009 (when Mom hosted Uncle Roger's golden anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood). I had normally gone home to spend the holidays with the folks. There were a variety of issues (principally budget and scheduling issues) during this period; for example, I was due to start a new government contracting job in northern West Virginia on my birthday just after Christmas 2013. The new job had been contingent on an interim security clearance process initiated in late October.
I think it never really crossed my mind I was missing one of my last chances to see him: woulda, coulda, shoulda. He looked younger and healthier than many people his age; his oldest brother had lived well into his 80's, and I've had some relatives live almost to the century point. Calling was not much of an option; Dad's hearing disability (from his military service as an aircraft mechanic) meant hearing aids, and Dad seemed to have trouble finding good ones: inevitably if and when I called there were high-pitched squeals drowning out our conversation. But to be honest, Dad wasn't big on conversations, on expressing his emotions. I've noticed that my little brothers were more verbal in expressing love for their own children. As for Dad, maybe it was the way he was raised, his military discipline, or more of his own quieter personality (vs., say, my outgoing mom). But his messages, verbal and nonverbal, were powerful and loving. For example, I remember I didn't go to see him off at the airport when he left on orders cut for Vietnam. (I think his orders were changed to Thailand once he got there.) I was 12 years old; I had 6 younger brothers and sisters, the baby still in diapers. I heard the weekly casualty lists on TV. I know families had dads, brothers, and sons dying there. My Dad wouldn't be on the front lines, but he would be working in a war zone. The idea of saying goodbye for the last time to my Dad was unbearable. In my trunk somewhere I still have a Christmas postcard. where my Dad wrote that he was counting on me being the man of the house until his return.
It's strange how little memories come flooding back. I remember Mom ironing Dad's shirts while watching soap operas, my siblings and I rushing to the door to welcome Dad home. I remember one of the one-on-one experiences; maybe this was a time when one of my middle sisters was born, but I remember accompanying him to a diner, being served a powdered doughnut and a glass of milk. I was at the top of the world, being there with my Dad.
There were times I treasured over the last several years; he came up to be with me when I had an outpatient procedure. One of our rituals every visit was that he would get on my case to get my hair cut. He would inevitably bring me down to the American Legion or VFW for a beer and to introduce me to his friends.
Normally this time of year I would go down and pick out a Father's Day card for him; I have very high standards in picking out cards. This is the first time since I was a young kid that I didn't wish him Father's Day. I wish I still could. I love you, Dad.
[NOTE: I circulated a note to my family and the grandchildren asking for any contributions to the blog. None to date, but if I get any, I'll post them. My Dad's remaining sibling, Uncle Ray, passed a few months back. Remember the peach story at the burial? Three of the 4 Guillemette brothers passed within a 2-year period. Uncle Ray was Dad's best man. Ray had a number of serious health issues over the years, and most people felt that he would be the first of the brothers to go. I don't know if and when the next post will be published, but I expect to prepare a post on the anniversary of his death.]
