The Seventh Day
My mother’s prayer card had a portrait of St. Martin de Porres and for years I used to carry them both with me everywhere I went.
It felt good to have them close to me, but I realized now that I haven’t seen St. Patrick in a while.
Today is the 17th anniversary of my father’s death and I feel like reconnecting with him in some small way.
My father had been hospitalized after falling and hitting his head a few weeks earlier. My sister and I saw him briefly in the intensive care unit and we were told that his condition was critical but stable.
Early the next morning, my sister called me to say that he had died. It was five years after we’d lost our mother.
“The new year is one week old and with the passing of Little Christmas on Saturday, he died right after the holidays officially ended,” I wrote in a blog post that day.
Army Life
I look back at my posts from that time, recalling how my father used to call me “Boo-Boo” when I was a kid, and how he, an army veteran, had been buried next to our mother with full military honors.
There were bad times, of course, every family has them. My father used to tell me that I have a short fuse—and he was quite right. But he was also one of the angriest people I ever met in my life.
His temper could explode at any time and there were occasions when I had absolutely no idea why he was so furious.
I used to wonder if my father had been traumatized by his time in the army, but honestly, how could anyone not be affected by the constant threat of death and the loss of so many close friends? War is trauma.
And yet I loved to hear his war stories, even though he told me many times about the battles he'd fought in and the people he'd met.
There was never any bravado or phony heroism. He freely admitted that he was afraid when the shooting started and artillery shells began blowing up around him.
One of my earliest memories of my father is sitting on his shoulders at a rally for John F. Kennedy in Coney Island. The recollection so vague, so fragile, but the image of that seemingly endless crowd still has a place in my mind.
As an adult, the old man and I got closer when I was miles away, first in Pennsylvania and then in Connecticut. He was supportive and encouraging, which wasn’t always the case when we were under the same roof.
A Different World
So much has changed since that day in 2007. Back then we were in the middle of the Iraq War, an unqualified disaster foisted upon this country by the draft-dodging imbecile George W Bush.
My father, who knew the horrors of combat all too well, was sickened by the obvious lies the administration was peddling.
“I can’t believe my country is going to war,” he said.
There were seven mass shootings in America in 2007, which is horrifying, of course, but it pales in comparison to last year, when we had a record 39 mass shootings in this country and five—yes, five—massing shootings in the U.S. in the first four fucking days of 2024.
My father went to Europe to fight a dictator, and now we have Donald Trump, the indicted presidential candidate—and former president—who sparked an insurrection on January 6 and has promised that he will be “a dictator for a day” while threatening to arrest his political opponents and shutdown news organizations.
Trump, who has said he is second only to Jesus, said the victims of a school shooting in Iowa “have to get over it.”
The old man would be horrified at what has happened to America, where far too many people are eager to give up the freedom that he and so many others fought to protect.
There is so much more I can say about my father, but I’ll keep wrap things up to say thanks, Dad, for all you did for us, I’m sorry we fought, and please say to Hi to Mom.
Now I have to go find St. Patrick.
Comments
It's been crazy here, Jay, and I don't see things getting any better.
Between the mass shootings and a goose-stepping psychotic running for president, I truly feel I should move to another country.
There's much to love about America, but a handful of deranged scumbags are ruining everything.
I will come back to England and we will meet in the real world. And I might have a one-way ticket.
I am so thankful that we're friends!
@Bijoux,
Thanks so much for sharing your experiences with your dad. As you say, he was a product of his circumstances.
I like your idea of realistically reflecting on the negatives. They can overwhelm us if we're not careful. It's easy to say "move on" or "get over it" but that takes a lot of hard work.
Take care!
In comparison to the relationship with your father improving when you left home, my own seemed to go the opposite way when I moved out into my first apartment. In part, it may have been as I did so after my father's death and she felt a sense of abandonment. For my part, I was in my mid 30s and realized that had I not left, my life would have been completely different. At times I find myself grieving for any sadness that my move caused her and the holidays seem to bring that all back.
I have prayer cards for both my parents, but have never carried them with me. I hope that you eventually find the St Patrick's card. My father's features St Anthony and my mother's the Virgin Mary.
Dorothy, thank you so much sharing this story.
It's so heartbreaking that you lost your mother during Christmas time when we're all supposed to be so cheerful.
And it must have been so difficult to leave home after your father's passing. But as you say, you had to get away or your life would've been completely different.
The holidays can be such an emotionally wrenching time when we think back on the ones we loved so much.
St. Anthony and the Virgin Mary--that's quite a team!
Oh, Jay, that would be so lovely! Must give it some thought!