In Memoriam: Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
My dad (lower right hand corner) was a compact kid whose four big sisters called him “Wee Willy.” But he was a scrapper. Bigger and tougher inside than out.
At 15, he forged his parent’s signature and joined the Marines, never finishing 10th grade, so he could whoop Hitler’s ass. Or Tojo’s. Or whoever’s ass needed whooping. Instead, fresh out of boot camp, he explained carefully to a bluto of a sailor why the Marines were superior to the Navy. And the sailor respectfully disagreed. With a beer bottle to Dad’s jawbone.
Dad spent the next three months in a military hospital. With his jaw wired shut. Sucking chocolate malts through a straw. During which time both Germany and Japan surrendered.
But Dad never lost his love for chocolate malts.
Or my mom.
And then I came along.
Dad loved us with a fierceness that would’ve made Hitler…
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