Growing up I occasionally heard about his tours—two before his 18th birthday—but don't recall any specific tale about his wartime experience. I learned at some point that he had been a gunnery officer aboard ship, but my imagination was left to supply the detail he never shared. It was a chapter in his life that remained closed to us.
When he and my mother married in 1947 they left rural Maine for upstate New York and later Palm Desert, California before finally settling in the San Francisco Bay Area near my uncle and his family. It would be another sixteen years before I would arrive, another lifetime entirely, and I've often wondered about my father's life b.c. (before children). What dreams did he have and was there a road not taken that he'd wished he had taken?
As a child I remember walking the several blocks from our home with my mother and sister to meet him on his return from work. We would watch until his little white Ranchero came into view, the German shepherd figurine with head bobbing riding along as mascot on the dashboard. Waiting at the grove of trees on the main road, I looked forward to whatever surprise daddy's lunchbox or shirt pocket held for me. By the time I reached adolescence, the walk to meet him after work had long since ended and my father had moved from working welder to domestic engineer in an era before men (especially men of his generation) became house-husbands. This wasn’t a voluntary shift but one in response to the angry spurs that had begun to grow on his vertebrae.
As I entered my teens, I increasingly found myself on the opposite side of the political and cultural forces that had shaped his life. I saw him as a yes man, conservative and observant of the status quo. He was the Archie Bunker to my meat head, the product of a generation that accepted racial slurs as common, that believed marriage was until death do you part, that believed a man took responsibility for the care of his family, that believed doctors and politicians, like a good parent, would take care of him, and believed especially that country was something to fight for and to honor. The American Flag was proudly displayed outside our home every Veteran’s Day, Flag Day, Armistice Day, Independence Day and Memorial Day, as it was for many other families in our neighborhood.
This tradition, this ritual of honor, seems also to belong to another generation. As I look around my neighborhood today, I see very few flags. As the daughter of a veteran, I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t even own an American Flag, although last week I came close to buying one when I happened upon a display in a big box store while shopping for office supplies. I lingered a moment or two, my conscience and patriotism both pricking at me. I pulled one and then another from the display and looked at them more closely. They weren’t inexpensive and for the price the quality wasn't what I'd expected. I remembered the flag we'd had when I was growing up and this definitely didn't measure up (ironically, but not surprisingly, these flags weren’t made in America. They were made in China). Since money was tight, I made a mental note to buy one another day.
Veteran’s Day has come and gone and I still haven't bought a flag. Maybe because I was raised and live in a more cynical, more disillusioned America than my father lived in. Maybe because I’m seeking perfection in craftsmanship more common in an era that has long since passed. Maybe because an outward symbol doesn't necessarily mean an inward reverence. No, I didn't fly the American Flag this Veteran's Day, but I did stop to reflect on the sacrifice my father and many others have made for the freedoms both large and small that I enjoy, dare I say even take for granted. And I give thanks for his faith and his selflessness.
