I escorted my father to the seventieth anniversary of his wartime Regimental reunion. He got to see and talk to the guys from his outfit and showed me off as his son. Before Thanksgiving, the place was upstate New York, near Rochester in late November.
We received a leather-bound copy of the History of the Regiment at the Veterans Hall. I could see a group of white-haired, elderly men hopping from table to table and maybe getting too loud to talk over one another.
“Hey Nicky, I remember when you saved my life in Ireland when we hit that boat. You threw me your life vest. I couldn’t swim.” More guys came up to our table.
“Hi Tommy, this is my kid, Nick Jr. He’s an engineer working with spacecraft, can you believe it”?
"Does he know you’re a hero? Yeah, your father saved the lives of two guys at Anzio beachhead. They froze and your dad pulled them out of their foxhole.”
My dad got up and started to shmooze the tables. The crowd was moving around, and the men looked like honeybees swarming. Outside, as we headed for the car, it started to snow. Dad said, “Let’s find a place for tonight instead of driving through this stuff. I’ll pay.” He pulled out a map of the area and directed me to a small inn.
At last, with windshield wipers straining and snow piling up on the side-view mirrors, we saw a sign, illuminated but collecting snow on its overhang: VACANCY.
We rented a double for $38 a night including tax. We were dry and warm and could have slept in the lobby, if necessary.
The owner’s wife, Dottie, was the cook and had not gone shopping that day, so we were offered leftovers. Relaxed, Dad waxed away about stories from when he was very young and the antics of him and his brothers.
These memories gradually started to reflect on his face. I noticed the tremor in his right hand, the deep, sunburnt face and wrinkles. The entire face took on an autumn tone. I thought I was looking at a beautiful portrait by Rembrandt on antiqued vellum.
Here was my dad, always respected but also feared. Naked in his thoughts, profound in his wisdom and owning a gravitas of which I would never enjoy. After breakfast, he became anxious to return to his home and neighbors so he could talk about the reunion with anyone and everyone who would listen.
We can’t return to the past or have another dinner. He passed away several months later, but I think he enjoyed our adventure and dinner together. I miss him. Happy Father's Day.