For Dad.
Before he was Dad.
A kid who grew up too fast. His own parents couldn't take care of him, so he took care of his little sisters himself.
He fixed cars, loved cars, and paid for every single one. A good kid with grease on his hands and a heart way bigger than he let on.
Eighteen. Drafted.
He didn't sign up. The letter came.
B Troop, 3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry, 25th Infantry Division. Vietnam, August 1968 to August 1969.
He was eighteen.
Paper and pictures.
Before he left, he gave Mom his car. "If I die, I want you to have it."
No phones. No internet. Just her letters and her pictures, weeks late, from the other side of the world.
He says they kept him alive. He brought every one of them home.
He ran toward it.
A large enemy force hit his troop's camp in the night.
He stood up in the gunfire throwing grenades. When rockets hit the armored carriers, he jumped down and ran through the explosions to reach his fallen friends.
He got the wounded out. Then he went back and kept fighting.
Five weeks later.
His own carrier was hit by a rocket and burst into flames.
He got out, pulled wounded men from another wreck, then ran to a carrier stuck in the kill zone and covered his buddies on the .50 caliber until they got it out.
Four Bronze Stars. Zero fuss.
Four Bronze Stars with the "V" for valor. The Combat Infantryman Badge. The Army Commendation Medal.
If you ask him about any of them, he'll change the subject.
For Bingo.
Most of his closest friends didn't come home. Bingo did.
Every year Bingo organized the reunion. Every year Dad said, "I left, and it's done." And every year they still talked.
Bingo passed away this week. Save him a seat by a quiet lake.
He asked in uniform.
Mom's family was Greek. Big Fat Greek Wedding Greek. Grandpa's one rule: you marry a Greek.
Dad came home from war, put on his uniform, and asked for her hand anyway. Grandpa said no.
Mom stood up and walked out with him. Didn't pack a bag.
And then came me.
Grandma snuck out to the wedding. Grandpa didn't speak to Mom for ten years.
Until I was born, and Mom said: if you want to meet your granddaughter, you accept my husband.
He did. Mostly. Dad always knew he wasn't Greek. 😏
Shh. Dad's sleeping.
No diploma, and he built a whole career anyway. On call, before cell phones.
The house went quiet so he could sleep during the day. We waited by the phone. When it rang, he had two hours.
Once he snuck me up into the engine at New Castle. To ten-year-old me, it looked like a spaceship. I was so proud of him.
Steam on the lake.
Tournament mornings. Still dark. Steam coming off the water. A boat that matched the truck.
He taught me to cast. I caught my best bass on a purple worm. I also lost a lot of very expensive lures in the weeds.
Sorry about those.
In his underwear.
The night I snuck out my bedroom window, he ran outside in his underwear, jumped on his Harley, chased down the car, and pulled the boy out by his shirt.
You don't run through rockets for your friends and then let some teenager take your daughter out the window at 2 a.m.
Also: 18 hours, Ohio to Florida, gas stops only. Bring your own urinal. (We are not cavemen, Dad.)
Still holding hands.
They gave up their Harleys for my school years, just in case. They needed to be there for me.
About eighty now. Pet names. Candlelit dinner every night. He calls her every three hours when she goes away for a weekend.
It's disgusting. I'm jealous.
He never once called me Stacy.
Army showers. Organized lures. Spotless sneakers. An immaculate car. That's where I get it.
And since I was a baby, lining up the soup cans and running the vacuum, I've had one name to him.
Herpa.
Thank you for being my dad.
You ran toward the thing everybody else ran from. Four times. Then you came home, went to work, and loved us so hard it hid all the hurt. You never once made any of it about you.
So this one's about you. Sorry, not sorry.
Now please write the book.