My father died in a car accident on Memorial Day 1967. I was ten years old and he was forty-two. I thought he had lived a long life.
As a UPS driver the route I had traversed the spot where he died. I crossed it twice a day for over thirty years and thought about him every time.
He wasn’t much of a father. He drank and was seldom home. I spent my youth looking for someone to say one nice thing about him. I never heard a nice story or one good thing. The only thing my older sister would say when asked was, “He was never there.” My brother only spoke once of him to say, “He was the meanest son of a bitch who ever lived.” My brother and sister have both passed so I’ll never get any more. Oh well.
I know so little about him. I know he graduated from Eaton High School He fought in WWII in the South Pacific. I have a box full of photographs. I would have loved to ask him about them, opportunities lost. I know where he worked and where he drank. I would give anything for a conversation that will never happen.