It is not flesh and blood

But the heart which makes us fathers and sons. 

                                            ~Johann Schiller

I lost my father a few years ago,

I miss him most on Father’s Day.

But I now know in my heart and soul,

That his spirit lives on in many ways.

He never had very much money,

He worked two jobs most of his life,

But he possessed a wondrous sense of humor,

And for 58 years, he adored his wife.

Very shortly after they were married,

He rushed off to join the Army Air Corps.

He was a crew member on a B-26 in WWII,

Stationed in England, defending our shores.

He never spoke much of his war years,

But I often caught him with mist in his eyes,

As he gazed upon his old boots in his closest,

For 50 plus years, they were shined.

He was also a strict disciplinarian,

And I was quite a mischievous boy.

So I often felt the sting of his hand,

But it never ever brought him joy.

When I was 12, I ‘borrowed’ his sedan,

And drove it down to the state of Missouri.

When the police eventually brought me home,

You can imagine his fatherly fury.

I never held this discipline against him,

And I truly believe it did me some good.

By the time I had reached young adulthood,

We had bonded as tightly as a father and son ever could.

We were also able to laugh heartily together,

At my many misdeeds and self-taught driving school.

He would always shake his head, smile, and grin,

And I’d admit that I’d often been quite a young fool.

He was also the most honest man,

I have ever had the pleasure to know.

If he thought he owed you a quarter,

Off he would traipse through the snow.

I soon joined the Air Force to honor him,

And he was as proud as any father could be.

He would send me taped audio cassettes,

And I would listen to his voice with glee.

He would relate the latest family trivia,

Or he would heartily spin a tall tale or three,

And quite often, he would beg me to bail him out,

Since he had teased Mom just a bit too vigorously.

We delighted in our pranks and in our silliness,

We egged each other on at every family gathering.

He and I were quite the comical father/son tag team,

Until my mother’s patience eventually began evaporating.

As she would meticulously serve us,

Yet another delicious home cooked meal,

One of us would start our silly humor,

And the other would soon smirk and squeal.

To my father and me, nothing was sacred or taboo,

He and I both found humor in the craziest things.

But eventually, as our laughter rocked the old house,

My irritated mother would eventually begin to scream.

That’s when she would give us ‘The Silent Treatment,’

And I would rush off to the safety of my own home,

Leaving my defenseless father to face the wrath and anger,

Of our ‘Little General’ Mother and Wife – all alone.

And that’s when I would now delightfully harass him,

And tell him that he was Such a Naughty Little Boy.

We would howl and giggle on that telephone line,

Like two tiny school pals immersed in our joy.

One day a stroke took my father’s strong body,

But his wondrous spirit, it never ever broke,

As he’d lie in his bed, unable to move,

He’d often smile, and ask me to tell him a joke.

After he died, I was lost without him for quite some time

Until I came upon his old insignia - The Fighting Moose.

That’s when I realized my Dad’s humor lives on,

Since Bullwinkle is often my muse.

These days, I envision my father’s light hearted spirit,

Soaring through the heavenly blue skies so carefree,

He’s spinning a tall tale or a joke for his friends,

And he’s laughing - still laughing – through all of eternity.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad