Father’s Day

I love this picture of a father holding his son’s hand as they walk. Truth be told, this would not be the image of me and my Dad. There’s no doubt in my mind my father loved me, but he did so in his own way.

He was born on a Tennessee farm in 1915 and worked hard as a kid. He was a teen when the Great Depression started. He talked of eating onion sandwiches at school.

He married my mother in 1939. My sister was born January 6, 1942, one month after World War II started for the US on December 7, 1941. I was born August 16, 1945, a few weeks before the war officially ended on September 2, 1945.

My father didn’t serve in the military during the war because he had an essential job at a dairy. I don’t know how he felt about that. Along with all regular citizens, the war years were lean years and he worked hard to provide for my mother and sister.

So, looking back at my years at home, I never heard my father tell me, my sister, nor my mother that he loved us. I realize now, his way of loving us was to work long, hard hours so we never went through the lean times he did as a child, teen and young adult.

Even though I didn’t get words of love from him, did get an example of hard work, integrity, honesty, and treating people with respect. I also got his love for baseball.

My father died in 1998. He was a good father.