At the Ol' Ballgame

I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately. I suppose that it’s only natural this time of year. Dad’s birthday was not that long ago and before that was the anniversary of my mother’s passing. With some birthdays coming up – my husband’s, my friend Cara’s (who knew my parents from the time we were both 9), mine – as well as my parent’s wedding anniversary on October 1st, how can I not reflect?

When I woke up this morning, I hopped on the internet and read the headlines on CNN, KSDK and the Post-Dispatch’s websites. I always skim and then go back later… unless something really catches my eye. One of the headlines on STLtoday pulled me in.

Today is the 10th anniversary of Mark McGwire breaking Roger Maris’ home run record of 61 in a single season.

Dad was a Cubs fan through and through. And that’s actually what led us down a strange and wonderful experience. Not the Cards, but his beloved Cubbies. He had wanted to see them play the Cards at Busch in July, but the series was sold out. Although a bit disgruntled, he settled for seats during the Cubs return trip in September.

I’ll admit that I hold players of sports up to a high level of conduct. They get paid big bucks to play a game for their career. I know it takes a toll on their bodies, but they are supposed to be playing for the love of the game. Players’ strikes in any profession leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And while I normally support anyone who belongs to a union and who feels they are being poorly treated, I want an effort to be made to reach an agreement before the contract is up. Doesn’t have to happen before the expiration date, but waiting until the contract has expired is just silliness.

Hence why I am still boycotting hockey. Maybe someday I’ll go back to the sport, but it’s going to take some doing.

It was the rivalry – the supposedly friendly rivalry – between Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire that brought a lot of fans back to baseball. I was one of them. The baseball strike in 1994 – and the resulting lockout – had left a bad taste in my mouth, but the Sosa-McGwire march towards the home run record set the world on fire. Would the record be broken? Which one would do it? Were they really that friendly with one another or was it just for the cameras?

Home run mania took over St. Louis and Chicago… and the rest of the country I’m sure. Baseball was back to what it always should have been – the love of the game. There was no trash talk between the two most likely successors to the home run crown. Sosa and McGwire said nothing but glowing remarks about each other and the late Roger Maris, something that the world seemed to realize that was late coming, but oh so deserving. And the fans filled the stadiums in droves. The great American pastime was back and the boys of summer had two marquee players. Who kept hammering them over the back wall and out of ballparks across the country.

As August began to slide into September, I joked that I was going to see the record get broken. Surprisingly, not a single soul believed me. In fact, the more people told that I wouldn’t, the more I believed that I would. After all, I was a huge Cards fan and Dad was a die-hard Cubs fan. What was more fitting?

September 8, 1998. Summer was wrapping up. Baseball season was winding down, but the level of excitement in the stadium was palpable. McGwire had tied the record of 61 the day before in an oh so fitting tribute on his dad’s 61st birthday. In a fairy tale for sports fans, could this script play out any differently? Of course the record was going to be broken in St. Louis. We are the best fans in baseball after all.

And McGwire did.

And I was there.

Okay, so I saw it on the TV while I waited in line to get my Dad a hot dog, but dammit – I was there!

Time can cloud memories and change facts, but I remember having a game plan when we got to the game – get all the food and drink we wanted before the game started because we weren’t going to move until it ended.

Except Dad wasn’t hungry when we got there.

He got hungry sometime in the 3rd inning. Dad hadn’t fallen ill yet in those days, but he still wasn’t as strong as he could have been, so I reluctantly offered to go for him. Which he gratefully accepted. And I was ever so pissed about. They have beer and soda vendors at the ballpark. Why the hell don’t they have hot dog vendors?

It’s a moot point now. I went back to my seat with his hot dog, tossed it on Dad’s lap and proceeded to pout. We fought, we made up and Dad got to see something magical before his body and mind started to betray him. And I made it just as all the festivities began. Heck, I probably saw it better on TV than if I had actually been in my seat. It all ended well.

And while I know that both McGwire and Sosa juiced, something that I think is heinous and unforgivable, knowing that doesn’t diminish the impact of knowing that I got to see the game with my Dad. I went to a lot of games with my Dad over the years, and they all have sort of blended together, but that day… that day we got something that brought Dad to the sport in the first place – and showed me a bit of insight into my father – the pure love of the game.

Allegations and Congressional meetings have stolen some of the thunder of my return to baseball games, but walking out of the stadium with my father that day is something I’ll regale to my kids someday although I’ll fall short on words to explain how special it was.

Kinda like right not.

But although the world cheered, it was a moment in my life with my father that stood out. Yeah, McGwire broke the record, but I couldn’t have witnessed it with anyone else. Because if it wasn’t for my Dad’s love of the game, I don’t think I would be a baseball fan. He tried to force football on me – a sport I came to on my own – but baseball was something more transcendental.

I got it that day.

And seeing my Dad as more than just my Dad, but rather the child that played his beloved game for the sheer adoration of the sport was something that I hold close to my heart.

And a small aside, but still a baseball related note… I know the Cards are out of the running in the playoffs. I’m fairly certain that statistically they can’t even make it for a wild card spot.

But the Cubs… the Cubs are having a stellar season. I follow my Cards during the season pretty religiously, but only as to where they are in the standings compared to other teams. I don’t do individual stats of players. I don’t follow other teams. I’m a fan, but not a fanatic.

However, it’s impossible for those who follow baseball not to take note of the Cubs. The laughing stock of the National League – of all of baseball – they are riding a wave of incredibility. Who woulda thunk?

I, for one, hope that they go all the way to clinch the World Series.

And I know that my Dad will be somewhere – up, down, somewhere that none of us know about – and he’ll be dancing a jig, singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,’ and crying tears of joy.

If they make it, I know Dad will have had something to do with it. I just know.

And so I wear one of his most prized t-shirts to bed tonight. His Cubs shirt that says ‘If It Takes Forever.’ Some might say that I’m a traitor for not better supporting my team. I say, blood runs deeper and that although he might be gone, my Dad’s reach is still strong.

I had hoped the Cubs would do it the season my Dad would pass away. Close, but not quite. I just think that it ended up taking my Dad a little bit longer in the haggling behind the scenes.

Dad always did like to talk. A lot. Maybe he just finished up his negotiations.

Go Cubbies!
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Me Thinks I See My Father

As I watched the Democratic National Convention last night, I smiled at the awe and adoration the different candidates’ children bestowed upon them. I was always proud of my parents. My mother overcame terrible illness to become the best mother a girl could ever ask for. And my father… he adored me completely and totally. And while he sometimes missed the mark in his over-protectiveness, I knew that it wasn’t for lack of caring. And I am very lucky in that he not only left a legacy of love, but also a legacy of physical reminders by means of his profession. Dad was an aerospace engineer whose mark today can still be seen.

Several years ago, I was in Los Angeles and saw a screening of Black Hawk Down. Certainly not a feel good movie, but one that everyone needs to see. After the helicopter crashed – hence the title of the movie – my friend whispered in my ear, Why didn’t the helicopter explode?

I knew the answer to this! Despite the somber mood of the film, I beamed at my friend and cheerfully told him – because of my Dad!

My Dad designed crash-worthy fuel systems for the Black Hawk and Apache helicopters when he worked at Army Aviation. His team also designed the seats so that when there might be a crash, the passengers don’t end up with broken backs. I wish I knew more about what else they might have worked on with the Army. Not so I could brag on him, but so that I know a little bit more about his legacy.

My Dad had a tendency to talk. A lot. Whether or not I – or whoever was in earshot – was able or willing to listen.

I wish I had listened more.

Today would have been my father’s 74th birthday. And as an ode to my Dad, I thought I’d trot out some of his favorite poems.

My Dad was rather puritanical during my growing up, but his taste in rhymes was not. I think I would have rather heard bawdy limericks than this favorite of his that, if I remember correctly, he read in a rest stop on his move out to Santa Monica.

Well here's to the fool who writes on shit house walls
May he roll his shit into little balls...
And he who reads these words of wit
Should eat those little balls of shit.

He loved it! I can still see him shaking with laughter as he recited the words. It never got old to him.

And no, I did not memorize the poem. Behold the power of the internet. Apparently those little verses made quite a few appearances in bathrooms across the country – even the world.

Another poem, this one my father swore up and down that he and his friends composed, was of a more… classic theme. A tale as old as time, you might say. However, I didn’t believe him them and, once I found it on the internet, I realized that I was unable to find the author, so who knows…?

In days of old, when men were bold
And women not particular,
They lined them up against the wall
And screwed them perpendicular.

Yup, my Dad was a prude for all intents and purposes, but his tastes in verse ran a little more blue.

When I looked up the prose, I happened upon other versions. I figured that I found ‘em, so I might as well share ‘em… despite my father never mentioning them.

In days of old, when knights were bold
And rubbers were not invented,
They would wrap a sock around their cock
And babies were prevented

In day of old, when knights were bold
And paper not invented,
They used tufts of grass to wipe their ass
And were very well contented.

In days of old, when men were bold
And cast-iron trousers wore,
They lived in peace, for then a crease
Would last ten years or more.

In the days of old, when the knights were bold
and the women chased the men
The men like fools got out their tools
and chased them back again.

In days of old when knights were bold,
And cared not for such trifles,
They nailed their balls upon the walls,
and shot at them with rifles.

In days of old, when men were bold
And toilets weren't invented,
They laid their loads upon the roads
And walked away contented.

In days of old when knights were bold
And penicillin wasn't invented,
Venereal drips ran down from their hips
And their toes were all cemented.

Does anyone wonder why I turned out the way I did after these?
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Congratulations! It's a Girl!

After years of speculation, I was told significant news last night. My cat, Pudge, had to go to the vet. Sneezing, raspy breath, watery puffy eyes for more than 24 hours started to freak me out. I'm still waiting on the urine and bloodwork to collaborate the x-rays showing possible pneumonia. My poor kitty feels so bad and doesn't understand why!

But in a strange twist of fate, my cat went into the vet's office one gender and came out another. While Dr. Kee was checking Pudge out, I asked her to verify Pudge's gender. A tabby/white, Pudge is mix of colors. Many thought it could be possible, if not probable, but the cage card when I adopted the former Nikzo, soon renamed Excalibur, shorted to Callah, temporarily called Jabba the Kitty, now answering to Pudge said 'N' under sex. Neutered. Not 'S' for spayed.

However, in the words of the vet yesterday, my "cat has a vulva."

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Gone, but not Forgotten

My mother died seven years ago today. Not a day goes by that my heart doesn’t ache from the loneliness of missing her. Some days are worse than others.

Today is one of those days.

Last night I dreamed about her. I had all sorts of odd little dreams flutter through my mind, but I remember that I was dreaming that I had double-booked a weekend and Mom wanted me to go into another room with her to sort things out. Since we were both already together in a different room, I wasn’t sure why we needed to relocate and told her that repeatedly. But she was emphatic.

That was my mother for you. Things might not always make sense, but in the end one usually saw the reasons for her actions. Not always, but generally there was a method to her madness.

I talk about her often, and think about her ten times that, but I’m always concerned that I’m going to martyrize Mom. She had a tough lot in life and never complained about it in front of me. I suppose that’s one reason why I have no patience for people who complain and don’t do anything to correct their lot in life. Its fine to be in the pity pot, but don’t float in it forever. Tread water, then get out.

I’m floating in the pity pot right now, but I’m allowed that today.

I also have no sympathy for people who blame others for their problems. It won’t make them go away, so accept that life sucks and then do what you can to make it better for yourself. Mom rolled like that. Can’t say that I always do, but I try.

She was 63-years-old. Way too young. She had skipped her first day of dialysis ever, over five years of three times a week treatments. Staff at the center called her at lunch time to rib her about being a slacker. Later, I was told she took it in stride and teased back. I got home from work around 5:30. It was a Wednesday. She was on the couch. It had to have happened sometime after she got off the phone. I like to think that she fell asleep watching bad TV. After all she had been through, going to sleep and not waking up would have been the kindest thing ever.

My mother was gorgeous. A dyed-in-the-wool good-looking gal. I look a lot like her, but there’s something less regal about me, less glamorous. Every single picture I have of Mom, from baby to adult, she’s posing. Not goofy expressions (far from it!) or exaggerated posture, but rather a secret – almost Mona Lisa-like – smile would curve her lips and her eyes, even as a small child, held a ‘come hither’ kind of gaze on the viewer of said picture.

She had poise.

Her sister, my Aunt Fran, told me that my Mom stayed with me for as long as I needed her. That she wouldn’t have left me if I still needed her. One could argue that they always need their mother, but it helped. Not a lot, but it made things easier to bear.

My Mom had two massive strokes when I was a toddler. I have a few vague memories of her prior to her illnesses – sitting at the counter at a soda fountain, riding in the front seat of her Impala as we were going to the Zoo so we could pet the goats despite it being cold out – but I do know that she was told in the hospital that she was going to die.

I was three. I got 23 bonus years with her. I told her often than I loved her, but I’m not sure she knew how much I cherished her. She often said that parents shouldn’t be their kids’ best friend. I couldn’t wrap my head around that at the time, but I get now that Mom was a parent first and foremost.

And she was a great parent. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother.

I only hope that I can be as good a person as she was, despite the gravity of her health coloring her life. I wish she could have written down her story. The people that she crossed paths with, the adventures she had, the ideas that danced in her mind… they were amazing tales. Someday I might write about them, but it would be a poor stand-in for what she could have done. Besides, she would have wanted me to have my own tales to write about. Mom was always looking forward. The past was something that prepared you for the future.

She protested Vietnam, but instead of sit-ins and whatnot, she got a job with the government to see if she could learn information from the inside. She was impassioned about the fight against AIDS, participating in Dining Out For Life, even if it was the only time she had left the house all year. When I told her I made friends who happened to be gay when I went away to college my freshman year, she cried over the fact that when she herself was a freshman, people couldn’t come out for fear of being hurt or even killed. She said I was brave for loving them for who they were, not what they were.

We fought. What parent doesn’t have children who protest being told what to do from time to time? But it was rarely and when I would apologize, she always laughed it off. The older I got, the more she realized that my arguments had valid points. The older I got, the more she became my best friend, despite her attempts to have it be otherwise.

I am so lucky. Our time was short. Our time was corrupted by the unfairness of her health. Our time was so much more special because of the barriers put before both of us – my youth and her inability to read or write. We made time count. We made time together special by taking it down to bare bones learning, entertainment, interaction…

I just wish I had learned to embrace Johnny Cash earlier. He was her favorite musician and I rebelled against her attempts to educate me to the ways of “the man in black” until college. She was so mad. All those wasted years! But better late than never, right?

Actually, I now know better. Embrace what you love. Who cares about what others think. Parents do sometimes know best. I listened, but now I wish I had listened better.

I was too confused in the days following her passing to know that I needed to have this poem recited – by me, by someone else – at her funeral, at her grave, somewhere, somehow. It was very comforting to me then. So I share it with you now:

Encouragement
~Emily Brontë

I do not weep; I would not weep;
Our mother needs no tears:
Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to keep
This causeless grief for years.

What though her brow be changed and cold,
Her sweet eyes closed for ever?
What though the stone--the darksome mould
Our mortal bodies sever?

What though her hand smooth ne'er again
Those silken locks of thine?
Nor, through long hours of future pain,
Her kind face o'er thee shine?

Remember still, she is not dead;
She sees us, sister, now;
Laid, where her angel spirit fled,
'Mid heath and frozen snow.

And from that world of heavenly light
Will she not always bend
To guide us in our lifetime's night,
And guard us to the end?

Thou knowest she will; and thou mayst mourn
That we are left below:
But not that she can ne'er return
To share our earthly woe.

I love you Mom.
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It's A Ten

My dog, Lance, turned ten-years-old on July 14th – Bastille Day. I was somewhat in denial about the whole thing because the higher his age ticks up, the less time I have with him. Lance is, without a doubt, the best dog I’ll ever have. Knowing that all the dogs after him will be great, fabulous dogs is still somewhat hard to swallow because the bar has been set so high.

And I’m as equally devoted to Lance as he is to me.

Lance came into my life the way any younger man does… sad brown eyes and a sob story that tugged at the heartstrings. Let me tell you, am I a sucker for the underdog! And yes, pun intended, so stop groaning. But people who meet Lance now-a-days can still see shadows of who he might have once been, but really – who Lance is now and who Lance once was is night and day.

Lance, short for Lancelot… because Arthurian literature has the best names for pets, was a severely abused puppy when a Humane Officer from the Humane Society of Missouri picked him up. His life had been spent living in a backyard with no shelter and hardly any sustenance. In fact, it was his lack of food that caused a neighbor to put in a call for animal neglect.

The Humane Officer actually had to go by the house where the neighbors said the abused puppy lived several times. The little brown and black puppy had tucked himself into a hollow by the back porch steps and blended right into the dirt yard. But a bit of movement on the last visit caught her eye.

Knocking on the door, she told the family that she was taking the dog in, pending the results of the allegations of animal neglect. The family protested, to which they were told that if they willing gave up the dog, it would cost them $35.00, but if they fought and it turned out that there was neglect, it could cost them upwards of $250.00.

They gave up Lance willingly.

The cage card for Lance said Mohammed when I first met him. Such a strange name for a scrawny puppy, but the Humane Officer told me that it was either Mohammed… or Killer. And she said that there was no way she could put Killer down as his name.

Lance hadn’t been fed for four days when he was picked up. Four months old and only weighing 12 pounds, he was severely underweight and had a slight case of rickets.

He also had no soul left.

I won’t get into the existential argument of animals having souls, because I believe that being able to communicate and express emotion are the building blocks of what comprises a soul, but Lance didn’t car if he lived or died. I would pick him up and he would drape himself on me. Not drape as in clingy, but drape as in wilted.

He hid in the back of his cage, piling up the bedding in front of him to act as a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. But I would have none of that. Not to be biased, but he was too good looking of a dog to not fall in love with. And really, abused animals can become untrustworthy. There was none of that in Lance. He was a dried up little sponge, just waiting to be rehydrated with love.

And I loved him as hard as I could. Multiple trips outside housebroke him within a week. And if I got busy and missed a trip, he would potty in the far corner of the cage. I taught him to sit and shake. I wanted him to become adoptable.

Wasn’t happening.

He was terrified of everyone else but me. No one else could go near him without shaking like a leaf. I was told over and over again that if I didn’t take him, Lance would get put down.

I made a decision. I brought him home for my Mom. It had been a few years since we had had a dog and I knew she needed a companion. A quiet, gentle dog for my quiet, gentle mother… What could be a better combination?

Well, the only thing better would have been if Mom had wanted a dog. She refused to come out of her room to see him, completely breaking my heart. But back Lance went to the shelter.

Immediately, I started thinking about how to save Lance. Lightbulb moment – move out and get an apartment that took dogs.

Mom ended up seeing Lance about a month or so later and FELL IN LOVE WITH HIM. I mean, it was almost disgusting how much Mom loved him. He was perfect for her. Sat by her side. Shook hands with her. Let her rub his chest.

Mom got Lance. Not only had he been neglected with no food for days on end, but a five-year-old boy who lived with his original owners used to punch Lance in the head. There had to have been yelling, too, because Lance still cowers at elevated voices. And Lance hates baseball caps. Something there, too.

Dad never got Lance. Head rubs were the way you showed affection towards dogs. And Dad was excitable and would raise his voice often, sending Lance running for cover.

But it was like a grandchild visiting. Bring the little lover boy and then take him home at the end of the day.

Which was fine because there was no mistaking whose dog Lance was.

I moved back home two years later to take care of my ailing parents. Lance was with my Mom when she died and was elemental in getting me through that tough time. Lance would go with me to visit Dad in the nursing home. I took him to restaurants that had outdoor seating. I took him to friends’ houses. We went to obedience training.

He ended up failing the Canine Good Citizenship test because he loved the other dogs too much. But really, I never saw that as a detriment. Lance IS love.

In fact, as a reward for his years of devotion, I got him a sister. Now, there are those of you who know Lainey and will argue that Lance was not rewarded but penalized. Yes, yes. I know. But they are faithful companions.

Just learn from my mistake and don’t get a Border Collie as a pet. They need to be working dogs. Anything less and you and the dog will want to kill each other.

I mean it.

Seriously.

But now that Lance is ten, I reflect back upon the years with affection and a bit of melancholy. I mean, he’s closer to his death than his birth. But I am a better person for having Lance in my life.

And there is no better dog than Lance for me.
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Steal You Blind

Last night was one of those evenings where everything seemed normal, but something was a little bit off and threw everything into a pattern of near-chaos.

Barry went to get money out of the ATM and while the machine did dispense the amount he requested, the receipt slip stated that his account was negative. Funny, since yesterday was payday and he has direct deposit. I chalked it up to a glitch with the bank and to check his online bank statement when we got home. Barry agreed and we went on our merry way.

Our merry way was to dinner with his family. It was much more pleasant than I imagined. I don’t know why I do this to myself… Generally when we got out with them, we have a pretty good time. But beforehand, I always imagine that we’re practically martyrs for going out with them. I suppose it’s because he grew up with them and there wasn’t always good times. And since both my parents are gone and I lack siblings, I kinda feel like an island sometimes.

But his parents are always warm and gregarious. His brother always has something funny to say. His sister-in-law is always asking for advice. And his sister is completely different from me, but we seem to be in sync with most of our hobbies.

So dinner was amusing, even if the restaurant was loud and dark. I have a mental list of pet peeves and while loud, dark restaurants don’t annoy me enough to rank in the top ten of my list, I have to wonder why bad lighting and lack of good acoustics seems like a good idea to restaurant owners. I mean, the food was good. But not great. Certainly I could get the same quality at a place that is better lit and has a quieter environment.

After much good-bying, Barry and I headed home. His car was needed a fill, so we swung by a BP to fuel up.

Only, his card kept getting rejected.

I finally swiped my card, we got the gas, and then we headed back to the homestead to see what the heck was going on with Barry’s bank account.

There are very few things in this world that scare me as much… and that I really am ignorant in the ways of…

Barry is the victim of identity theft.

Charges were pending for things that just didn’t make any sense. It would be almost comical to imagine what it was they were actually buying if it wasn’t happening to us.

Immediately, he called the 24-hour fraud line and was told that they had planned on contacting him in the morning.

Since I wasn’t in on the conversation, I have to wonder if the account would have remained active long enough for even more damage to have been done. I’m glad to know that they were aware that A LOT of money had been transactioned within a 48-hour period on his account, but it did bother me that the bank was going let it happen all night long, too.

So glad that Barry called when he did.

Because of the amount – over $500 – the feds are now involved. I presume that the feds are involved in almost every case because I can’t even begin to imagine that a stolen credit card number would be used to only buy one thing.

Of course, I’ve been known to be wrong before.

But it’s a scary world we live in. I hem and haw about actually wanting to bring children into it. I cry when I watch and read the news.

But I’m one of those people who think that things will never happen to me…

…until they do.

Or in this case, to Barry.

Which somehow wounds me worse.
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In Rememberance of Things Past...

The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers in arms on other fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

--Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, addressing U.S. troops before the Normandy invasion

My father often reminisced about events that meant little to me at the time, but the emotion behind his stories often moved me... even if I had heard the stories many times over.

As was usually the case because I think he believed that if someone enjoyed a story once, they would enjoy it even more with multiple tellings.

But the war… talking about it always made him cry.

And today, he would have cried.

D-Day, the 6th of June. The largest single invasion in human history.

He often talked about the invasion of Normandy and how it changed the course of the war. About how more than 175,000 troops – boys – who, in the largest sea-borne invasion fleet in history landed on the beaches and hit the water, trying to battle past the armies of Hitler and the Third Reich. And even though many fell that day, many more pressed on, turning the proverbial tide and on D-Day, the 6th of June, when the beachhead was captured and wrestled away, it signaled the beginning of the end of World War Two.
Dad’s father was the block captain when the whole country was practicing blackouts in an attempt to prevent any sort of attack. Dad spoke almost reverently of how his father would walk the streets to make sure everyone on the block complied with the 60 second warning.

Dad grew up on the near north side of Chicago. While many of the coastal cities had more to worry about in terms of invasion, Chicago was a large enough city to merit concern.

Mom grew up in Webster Groves, a rather tight-knit community where everyone knew everyone. She lived on Elm Street, in the heart of Old Webster, in a gorgeous two-story home that I covet to this day.

It was a far cry from the apartment building my Dad grew up in, but there's no comparing city living to suburban living. It's apples and oranges.

I pass by my mother's house on a semi-regular basis and it still boggles my mind that although the yard is large, they raised chickens and turkeys right next to their Victory garden.

Dad would never eat chicken because, he said, whenever his mother made chicken and dumplings, seeing the chicken fat float to the top turned his stomach so badly that he could never fathom eating the poultry.

Mom always replied that she used to wring chickens neck when she was but a girl and she LOVED the taste of it.

But I digress, as I am wont to do...

While I had no direct impact of War World II personally, it moved me that my father would cry, sob sometimes, over the broken bodies that made sure that not only the United States remained safe

64 years ago today, boys – BABIES – went through the gates of Hell.

My father always remembered. And not just when June 6th would roll around. But often. And with great reverence.

And with lots of tears.

Today I cry for those who never came back because my father is no longer around to do so.

I might not remember, but I'll never forget.

And to those that I know – and to those that I don't – who are stationed overseas, please come home safe. My tears today are not only for those 64 years ago, but also those today.
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