Yesterday, December 1st, 2020 marked the 17th Anniversary of the death of one of the most honorable men it was my privilege to know intimately…my own father. I say honorable, for good cause. He quit school early in the 11th grade during the Great Depression to help support his family which consisted of a father, mother and two younger brothers. He had fallen in love with my mother when he was 16 and she was just 13 though they were separated by over 100 miles until early in 1940. They reunited and married when Dad was almost 22 and Mom was almost 19 in August of 1940. They discovered that she was pregnant in the Spring of 1941 so Dad joined the U.S. Navy which they believed would insure Mom received adequate health care. Along came Pearl Harbor and I was born a month and 10 days later. Dad served honorably throughout the war, though as a waist-gunner on a PBY out of Jacksonville, Florida, searching the East Coast for German submarines. He was honorably discharged after VJ Day, returned home and got a job operating a punch-press for Atkins Saw Company at what would today be FAR below “minimum wage.” Though as a family, we often went without, even going hungry sometimes because there was no food in the house, Dad steadfastly REFUSED to accept any of his veteran’s benefits, believing that they should be reserved for men who’d actually seen combat. He was ashamed that he hadn’t–in his opinion–contributed much to the war effort. To work at Atkins, he had to join a union–which he hated, because they were constantly calling for strikes which put Dad out of work for long periods. He resorted to selling life insurance door-to-door at one point; insurance that he couldn’t afford to buy for himself. There was a time when Dad would work an 8-hour shift at Atkins, don a white uniform with a little white paper hat and pump gas at an Humble Oil, full service station. In Indianapolis, these were called “Gasoteria” stations. He’d close the station at 9PM and drive home, stopping on the way to sweep up the metal shavings at a friend’s machine shop, usually getting home at around 11PM, eat dinner and get up a 6AM and do it all over again. We, by then, consisted of Mom & Dad, Me, my 21-month younger sister and a 7-year-younger brother. Dad had learned how to operate an off-set printing press from his own father and got a job as the printer for the Indianapolis Chamber of Commerce where he worked at near minimum wage until he retired at age 67 after undergoing a triple by-pass and aortic valve replacement. Mom died of a sudden heart attack in July of 1992 just before their 52nd Wedding Anniversary and Dad lived another 11 years without her, telling me that every morning of that 11 years when he woke in the morning his first reaction was always, “Damn! I really want to go be with Ginny.” The morning of December 1st, 2003…he did.
I was very moved to read this. Your father was part of the ‘Greatest Generation’ … and not just because of his honorable military service.
When I look at the present generation … or some of them … these charmers are Portland (Oregon) AntiFa types. Barely human.
You have given us pictures of the dumbest generation. Yikes!
The Nazi Brownshirts and the Italian Fascist Blackshirts were not much different. They were street thugs who terrorized and beat up the political opposition. These people are cut from the same cloth.
Just think! In another ten or twenty years, one of these bozos could be your Congress person, Senator or President! Of course the country will look like Ancient Rome in 475 AD, but that’s beside the point.
One of the “leaders” of my generation was the late Jerry Rubin. He never looked as bad as these guys. He had a big beard, but he didn’t look as strung out. Late in life he actually cleaned and person said he sounded logical when he got into local government.