Fortunate Daughter

When my dad passed away 12 days ago, I asked him to send me a sign that he was all right.  Since then, I’ve heard particularly loud birds singing sweet songs. I’ve felt the wind dance around my feet, swirling circles of leaves and reminding me how he vigorously stirred his coffee. And now, this. Opening up my fortune cookie, well, you can imagine that it took my breath away. Thanks, Dad, for letting us know you haven’t left us.

He didn’t want any fanfare or ceremony, but we just had to honor his life. We chose to do a “Life Well-Lived” Celebration. It was good for our collective souls to tell stories, see his WWII dog tags, brag of his accomplishments, laugh over photos of him doing a funky dance at some long ago wedding. He taught us how to live our lives to the foolish. As a famous doctor (Dr. Seuss) once said, “don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.”

A Wink and a Prayer

I loved my dad’s wink.  He’d charm the waitress or calm the nervous daughter about to walk down the aisle.  He transmitted calming non-verbal support with his wink, a shared conspiracy of understanding and solidarity.

One of the greatest gifts I received was last Saturday afternoon. Something just told me to pop over and see how he was doing. He was diagnosed with cancer about three weeks ago and had opted for no treatment. He just wanted to come home and pass on his own terms.

Although in pain and diminished in his ability to express himself, my dad gave me his trademark wink as I was leaving.  “Be good, Cissybabes,” he told me. “If you can’t be good, be careful.” The nickname, the sentiment, the wink – they all transported me back to when I was 12.

Dad passed away peacefully on Monday afternoon.  I’m so glad I got one last wink of reassurance on Saturday. I’ll treasure it always. 

I Never Saw Him Again

My dad wrote down a lot of his army stories and they are definitely worth sharing.  This one involves a friend and the road not taken:

                   I first met Leonitias in 1938 when we first arrived at Fort Williams, Maine, as raw recruits in the U.S. Army. His name was so hard to pronounce that everyone called him the “Greek.” He was like a caricature, about 5ft 5 inches and weighing about 150 lbs. His feet were so wide that the Army had to order special shoes for him. The Greek’s home was out on Cape Cod where his father owned and operated a restaurant. We became the best of friends and served our entire time together in the 5^th Infantry. He always wanted me to meet his sister, who he claimed was a Greek Goddess.

                   In late 1940, the entire 5^th Infantry was moved to do guard duty on the Panama Canal and the jungle area around the canal. After two years of this hot miserable assignment, the Greek and I were due for discharge, and we made an agreement to re-enlist for the Philippine Islands. The Greek came back to the States on a boat ahead of me and we were supposed to meet at Brooklyn Army Base, where we would re-enlist. When I arrived in Brooklyn, there was no Greek. I waited five days, called his home several times but could not contact him, so I decided to take my discharge and head for home. As it turned out, I know that I was so lucky that I lost the Greek, because had we re-enlisted for the Philippine Islands, there’s a good possibly that we would have become prisoners of Japan, and who knows what. As for the Greek, I never saw or heard from him again.