Memories

Day 29: I had but a few years to enjoy my father's stories, to watch him in his woodshop or to help him in the garden as he sowed corn or turned the compost; a few short years before the effects of war wrested him away. My memories of him are few and perhaps colored by the fact that he was viewed through adoring eyes. I am certain that he must have been a man with faults, but my recollections find none. I never heard him raise his voice in anger except to swear at the tractor or a raiding neighborhood dog, never heard him argue with my mother, except in the sport of philosophical debate. Nor do I recall his illness, because he masked it well. What comes to mind most readily when I think of my father is sunny, warm days and corn sheaves, the scents of sawdust and Old Spice, and the rich browns he always wore and how they accented his dark eyes. I think of my father in sepiatones and blue (his other favourite color), and the handkerchief he always carried which was woven in those hues. I only know his war stories from hearsay, because he spared me the horrors he confided to my mother in private. I did not know how he had suffered until I became an adult.

On this Veterans Day, I choose to remember the man who taught me to connect to the Earth, a man who felt the seasons in his bones and set his course by their dictates. It was circumstance which made him a soldier, but a hero he was born.