America: A World War Story; Chapter One

Ch. 1 - My Father's House

My most vivid childhood memory was the death of my father.

Born in 1900 and raised in Iowa, my father used to tell me he was a nothing more than a century boy. I would joke saying he's born over a century ago. "No, no I'm not a 100 years old. I 's born around the turn of the century. I just look 100." I think that was my favorite thing about him. The Great War gave him a graven face, but was never harsh nor prideful. It's like he let nothing bother him, except for the occasional dream. I saw him more than once wake up at night getting hysterical about finding something. Usually he'd be mumbling about a gas mask. After he came to, he'd be breathing so hard I thought he near passed out. Before goin' back to bed he'd check on me. Then, I could hear a very soft sobbing. He wasn't looking for sympathy, but rather he was in an uncontrollable state of fear and sadness. The next morning he'd be up early and wouldn't stop fiddling around until I at least cracked a smile. You'd never had guessed that he thought death came knocking the night before.

He lived a life to provide for me in every way. He had no one, except me. I'm not sure what happened to my grandpas and grandmas, he never mentioned anything and I never knew to ask. My mother died in giving me the greatest gift: life. My dad would speak of her as if no other woman even existed. It's like he was just waiting for her to return or for him to meet her. I should have had a sister, she died in infancy. Swine flu during The Great War. My father never told me this, but I think he looked at me as a sort of promised son. Not salvation with God or nothin'. More like my birth was a sign that he was not alone. I was his last chance at life and I was the most unlikely. I birthed early and he watched me struggle. I was underweight. Constantly battling illness. Once, I had an pneumonia twice in a year. The few times I saw a doctor they would say I could be normal one day. Then he'd work hisself even harder. Every plow he pushed and every tool he repaired was to give us a dream that never came to be. When 1929 came, the land was no longer ours.

From bloodied fingered to calloused hands and by any means necessary my father would provide. Not just a menial existence of food, clothing, and shelter; but also a life worth living. We'd joke, laugh, and tell stories. I knew mine weren't great and he'd laugh at my jokes and hang on every word of my stories. He only ever wanted to be that. My father. I was his calling, vocation, and life's work.

At 12 years-old, I watched my father's lifeless body lowered into his final resting place. It was a plot the new owners of our farm allowed for him to be buried. Finally joined with my ma and sister. Every inch makes a memory and every inch insults the person I loved and respected with everything inside of me. Every breath I had was one had with and because of him. I was with him when he breathed his last. He looked at me and said, "my boy." He taught me to talk, walk, read and write. My very life was owed to a man whose departure from this world left me...with...no one. My father, confidant, and friend is now a "was". Was my father. Was my friend. Was never supposed to be gone. After he spoke his final words, the look on his face was a disappointment in hisself. As if he should have known. Or, did something different.

If he was here, I'd want him to know that he never once let me down. He gave me everything I needed. I just didn't have him as long as I wanted.