The Uniform In The Closet
One of the first things I think of when I think of my Dad is "Army". He was in Occupied Berlin during the Korean War, he drove a Jeep that had a machine gun mounted in the back, and basically was "target practice" for the Germans. He loved those Jeeps just the same. Willy's Jeeps. And he never forgot them. All of that was all over by the time I was born.
He and my mother had bought a house in very rural Connecticut. It was wonderful. "The Little House" on the end of a dead-end street, with a beautiful pond in the front, just across the road. My Dad, like my mother's father, was a printer. A compositor at the New Canaan Advertiser, but also a printer. We had our own presses in the basement, and every night I went to sleep with the sound of the press running, kachunk, cachunk, kachunk.
My father had a "fix-it" for everything. What he couldn't find to fix a part, he made. He taught us all the value of creating a solution for ourselves. I believe he knew this before the Army, but the Army and he got along just fine.
Many years later, he was working on Jeeps. He decided he needed to have a Willy's (or two). And he fixed them.
The time in between his time in the Service and when he didn't answer the phone on a Thursday in August, 2015 is filled with morals, lessons, laughs, goofy optimism. When I was little I used to follow him everywhere. He taught me how to change the spark plugs on my cars, but told me to figure it out for myself when I had to balance the dual carburetors in my MGB.
Throughout the entire life I shared with him, there was his uniform in the closet. The United States Army, for many, was a good job with regular pay, benefits, and the advantage of the GI Bill. I believe, more than that, my father had an innate sense that he needed to do his share. So he enlisted. After discharge he was in the Army Reserves for a while.
He kept his uniform. In the closet, like a, no, better than a "best suit". It had become part of the fabric of his life. It had become a partner in the walking a path where you are teaching others, such as with his four children. It became a part of his generosity, where he would help the next guy before he would keep something for himself. He would give you a ride, give you a dollar, give you a blanket, give you a way to get what he couldn't give you. But he was no pushover. He would also tell you to take a hike if you had a message or action that he felt was wrong.
I believe the uniform in the closet gave him strength. It reminded him of hardship and gain, buddies, and loss. Life and death, and choosing life.
