Some Dads Do...Some Don't

My dad did. As his did before him.

They did what they had to do.

My grandfather was a stretcher-bearer in WWI because he refused to carry a weapon. He was the guy running around the battlefield without a weapon, dodging bullets while trying to help the wounded.

My dad's eyesight was terrible, he was essentially blind, so for WWII they gave him a rifle, but told him not to shoot anybody because he couldn't tell who was what or what was who. In addition to his rifle they gave him a typewriter. His main task from the Philippines was to write the report sent to families about their loved one: "...we regret to inform you...with bombs exploding and bullets winging past he was able to hold off an entire battalion as his unit reached safety..." Everyone was a hero in his world. Well, not the officers. His world was the enlisted ranks.

He was captured and imprisoned when he drifted from camp. Three days later he reappeared. There had been hand-to-hand combat, and he later told me, "We looked at each other and we both realized one of us was going to die." Really? Really.

When Vietnam rolled around I was 2S; a student deferment, and he suggested, "If your status ever changes, if I were you, I wouldn't go. This war, any war, isn't worth what the politicians say it's worth. Go 'CO', or go to Canada, but you'll decide for yourself." 100 days later he died of a heartattack and my draft classification shifted to 1A when I dropped out of Long Beach State to run his company and finish the contract with the USIA.

There was work to do.

I went down to Westwood to appeal my 1A, claiming 'sole-surviving son.' "Boy, we changed that, you may be the sole-surviving son, but your daddy didn't die in combat, so you're 1A and you're gonna stay 1A, and you can look for something in the mail from us real soon."

Been looking ever since. And for more than 40 years I've been doing what I had to do.

Working. Paying the rent. Paying the bills. Grindstone. Uphill.

Doing what has to be done.