A Guy Named Joe

My dad Joe was a small man with a big personality. By small I mean small, maybe 5' 3" on a good day.  He married my 4' 11" mother and they produced a tribe of Keebler elves, of which I'm the last.

When Joe entered the Navy in 1942 at the age of 19, he did so willingly. This seemingly brave act, enlisting at the height of WWII, was not performed out of a sense of patriotism. Simply put, my dad was hungry. For food. The Navy offered three squares and a nifty white uniform. The possibility that said uniform might someday be soaked in his life's blood was a risk he was willing to take.

In fact, Joe's entry into the U.S. Navy did not mark the beginning of the end but rather the start of a new life. Through the Navy he met a friendly Italian fellow named Frank. Frank introduced Joe to his baby sister, Jean, thus unlocking a series of events ultimately culminating in the development of the great Maryland Elf dynasty mentioned above.

But that is the story of my beginning, which will have to wait another day for its telling. Today I speak of the end of my father's tale.

As I have already mentioned, Joe was vertically-challenged, a fact that did not go overlooked (pun intended) by his superiors. He was given the job of radioman, a perilous position which meant he had to  inhabit the tiny front seat of a two seater surveillance plane for many, many hours at a time.

One of my dad's main jobs was to make sure his plane was immediately hooked to the ship upon landing in the sea. In those days, this type of plane always landed in the sea behind the ship. A cable was thrown into the sea. One end was attached to the plane and it was then dragged alongside the ship.

Joe's job was to haul himself out of the cockpit, crawl along the wing and look for the hook. Once he spotted the hook floating in the ocean, occasionally surrounded by sharks, he would attach the hook to the plane. While the seas of the Atlantic heaved around him. And enemy ships circled. And my father's ship floated away from him on the 10 foot swells.

Perhaps Joe might not have minded climbing out onto the wing if he knew this little lamb chop awaited him.

Not an easy job for anyone, much less a man whose sense of self-preservation once caused him to accidentally push me out of his way while rushing into the house during a lightening storm.

Think Bilbo Baggins in a military aircraft. You get the picture.






But God had something different in mind for my dad, one which did not involve a brave military death in high seas. My dad survived the war, and traveled to the one room Bronx apartment his friend Frank shared with his sister and parents. He swept my 99 lb mother off her tiny Italian feet, and whisked her away to start of a shiny, new life in a decrepit mobile home nestled in a trashy suburban NY trailer park.

Yes, Dad survived the War and went on to live a full middle class life. He took great advantage of the opportunities afforded him by the military, finishing four years of college in three and going on for a master's degree, all on the G.I. bill. After completing his college courses, he and my mom moved from New York down to Baltimore, to a Cape Cod house in the small town of Catonsville. In short succession three daughters were born. Nine years later (oops!) I came along to complete the picture of the American dream.

58 years after the end of WWII my father died after a 2 year struggle with Alzheimer's disease. He was laid to rest in a U.S. military cemetery outside of Baltimore. He was 80 years of age.

At the time of my father's death, a WWII veteran was being buried every 10 minutes. We had to wait 2 weeks for internment, and were not allowed to have a service at the graveside because of the instability of the soil from the newly dug graves surrounding his.

Today I visited my father's grave.






It was a beautiful day and I sat for a long while contemplating my surroundings. Row after row of stone slabs marched before me, each stating the identity and rank of the man or woman slumbering beneath.







Here and there others visited loved ones.

A son brought his mother, coaxing her from the car to stand over her husband or son.

A woman spread a blanket to lie next to her beloved husband, son, brother or friend.






And I sat on the cool ground, absorbing the waning November sun, engaging in a one-sided conversation with the best men I ever knew.

I lay back so I could take in Dad's view of things.

Not a bad spot, as final resting places go.  The guys on either side look like a pretty feisty bunch.

As I headed back to the car I thought of how proud I am of my father, for his service to our country, and for the life he carved out for himself and his family, one paycheck at a time.

I thought of the lessons he learned from a difficult childhood, the forthright manner in which he tackled adulthood, and the quiet joy that shone from his entire being every time he visited with one of us girls in his later years.

Happy Veteran's Day, Dad. Yours truly was the greatest generation.