Today is my youngest son's birthday and although he hates attention drawn to himself, this proud mother can't help herself. Forgive me, Son. You don't have a choice. The Lord insists.
Sometimes your sense of humor came through and you didn't even know it. I remember the time we were moving to San Antonio from Ft. Huachuca. Dad told me to turn the car around and be ready for him to get in and drive us away after he signed out. Trouble is, I didn't realize there was another exit at the top of the hill and I tried to turn the car around in a rut filled dirt parking lot. The homemade trailer we were pulling caught one of the ruts, jack knifed, and left a huge dent in the side of the car. Dad was furious with me. "I suppose you're going to be mad at me all the way to San Antonio," I said.
"I probably will," was his honest response. There was dead silence for several miles on that interminable 28 mile stretch of nothing between Ft. Huachuca and Interstate 10.
Finally, the quiet voice of a six year old came from the back seat. "Is Mommy going to get a whipping?" It broke us up and the rest of the trip was made in a more jovial mood. In fact, somewhere east of El Paso, Dad asked you and your brother to pull the inside panel off the wheel area and try to kick the dent out of the car. Don't think it worked.
When we got to San Antonio, we decided that International Travelall was much too big for roads in Honolulu. Trading it in for a Pacer was the decision. However, we still had Chief, our 35 pound dog and we were unsure he would fit under the hatchback. We took him to the dealership. Dad walked to the Pacer on display, opened the hatchback and told the dog to get in. Chief hopped in, Dad closed the door and told the approaching salesman, "OK, now we can talk."
Trouble is, you, the six year old, is the one who wanted to talk. The first thing out of your mouth is the story of the dent. Dad excused us, saying it was time for you boys to eat. We stopped at a fast food place, got the 2 of you hamburgers, dropped you off at the apartment we were renting and then he and I went back to make the deal on the car.
Speaking of hamburgers, I remember the time you were sick of them. No blame there. We were on the road-again. This time, it was from New Jersey to Colorado. We'd stayed in hotels until we could find a place to buy. We thought it might be a good idea since Viet Nam was still raging and as a serviceman, Dad could easily have been called to the cause, leaving the 3 of us and the dog with no home. We usually lived on base, but base housing at that time was not available to dependents without the active duty person. The house we bought had no stove and we ate out again the last night before the stove came so I could finally cook something besides hamburgers. It was more than you could bear. You looked at that hamburger and looked down at your hands and back again. I don't think you touched it. I'm not sure any of us did. Three weeks of McDonald's was enough to cure anyone.
I'm on a roll as far as you and food are concerned. You were in kindergarten and your brother was in the 4th grade when we were living in Ft. Huachuca. He came home from school one day and announced I needed to make cupcakes for the Halloween party at school the next day. You started hopping up and down, demanding I make them for your class, too. They were a rush job, even more so than your brother's, who got his order in first-at the last minute. Needless to say, they weren't my best effort, but your 4 year old heart was deeply touched. You stood on tiptoe, looking at those cupcakes spread across the top of the washer and dryer. "Oh, Mommy, they're so pretty!"
Let me hasten to add that food and you are not my only memories. I still can see you outside on the street in Rolla, playing "football" with half a dozen munchkins a third your size. You were a big boy and they weren't at all large for their age. You'd stand there, with those tykes hanging all over you. They were having a big time. Later, they'd tell their mother with a big swagger and bigger grin, "I beat up Dan!"
When I was with you many years later, I was deeply impressed at the way you had such in-depth conversations with your teenage son. You treated him with respect and dignity. Not something all dads have the patience or understanding to do. Now, he's showing the world the results of a good dad with a teenage son.
It's one thing to treat a respectful child with dignity and respect, but you were also compassionate and understanding when most parents would have given up or at least, not done nearly so much as you did. You are an amazing dad and now, as a grandpa, you are still amazing.
I also remember the time you played football in Rolla-with the high school team, not neighborhood little ones. The Waynesville team not only tripled teamed you, one of them launched himself at you like a missle, striking you in the back with his helmet propelled into you with the full weight of his lance straight body behind it. You and I spent the next week traveling back and forth between Rolla and Ft. Leonard Wood, at the doctor's office. Finally, I asked the doctor why he had to see you so frequently. His response was that there was the possibility you liver was bruised and if so, you could bleed to death before anyone knew what was wrong! I still get chills at the thought at how close we came to losing you.
How grateful I am God gave you to us and has kept you safe. You've been a good son, a great father, and you chose a wonderful wife that loves you. Can't ask for more than that. You've blessed your parents in ways we could not begin to tell, and we're grateful for you. The happiest of days to you and a great year to follow.
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