I hope you dance...

I have heard a song with those lyrics in it, perhaps it's the title of the song, I don't really know.  It's a sappy song, and not one that is played on my radio station of choice. Nonetheless I grasp the meaning of the song: make the most out of your life.   This song comes to mind today, the day that would have been my fathers 89th birthday.

Dad died in 1998, at the age of 78.  Similar to his own father, it was much too short a life, in my opinion.  I miss him and think of him daily.  A few months ago my brother Dick and I were discussing Dad.  He was a dancer, Dick said.  That observation has remained with me since. Indeed he was.

Born an only son, with three older sisters, Dad was spoiled and adored by his mother and sisters. We often heard stories about Dads childhood and the way he pulled off the most incredible of stunts, in part, I suppose, because he knew there would be no repercussions.   

Yet it was not all fun and games for Dad.   Raised in the period of the great depression he lived the standard: waste not, want not, so endemic to that generation.  The stories of his "saving" a scrap of paper or piece of aluminium foil are innumerable.  A good friend of his, giving the eulogy at his funeral, had us unpredictably laughing as he recounted Dad's numerous uses for duct tape.  

As many of his era, The Great Generation, as Tom Brokaw writes about, Dad joined the Army/Air Corps January 7 1942.   This was one month to the date following the attack on Pearl Harbor which precipitated  the United States entry into WWII.  He met my mother at a dance and the story is that although she was in crutches from a broken leg at the time, he asked her to dance.   They married in  December 1942 and after a brief " honeymoon" in Kentucky, Dad was sent to Airplane Propeller Mechanic training school at Chanute Field, Illinois.  As part of the 15th Tactical Reconnaissance Squadron,  he was deployed to England first, then as part of the combat operations over France and later into the depths of the war where he continued with armed reconnaissance in the European theater.  He recalled that he was part of "Patton's eyes"  a group whose mission was to track German artillery and minimize it.

While Chuck and I were living in England, Mom and Dad came for a visit. Renting a car one day, we headed to Middle Wallop, to the military base where Dad had been stationed. Much to Dad's delight, the base commander granted us permission to enter and assigned a young officer to accompany us on a tour.  We lunched in the old tavern in town and then strolled the streets with Dad remembering this road but not that  Some time later, we brought Mom and Dad to France and visited Normandy where Dad stood before a legend outlining the fronts of the war and while educating us to his experiences, recounted the battles he participated in.  As the sun set that day we were all deeply moved when Taps began.   We were soon chuckling however, as Dad, speaking in english with hands and arms wildly moving in the air, with a frenchman who only spoke french, learned where he could get his hands on a bottle of Calvados.  Normandy was a deeply moving part of his visit and I will always be grateful for having accompanied him to this locale.

There were demons from the war that remained with Dad for the rest of his lifetime.  He was with the group that liberated the concentration camp at Buchenwald.  As a young child I remember "finding" letters he had written to his sister Doris about the experience and recently found some old photographs that he would have taken from that period.  I realize now that no one would be able to erase such images from their memory.

To say that Dad was a strict disciplinarian would be an understatement.  Raising 9 children, his word was law and we quaked in his wrath.  As young children I remember my older brothers and I throwing his belts, which he used to govern,  off of the back porch from our two storied house in Winthrop Massachusetts.  Although I no longer recall, I am sure we paid the price for that act of revenge.  As a dating teenager, I remember being mortified as Dad, siting on the front steps,  rebuked any date who didn't have me home at the appropriate hour.  Each of us has their own recollection of his paternal ability and I know that many may not recall it with fondness.  Being the first of his daughters, I remember Dad teaching me to dance at the Winthrop Yacht Club.  I stood on his feet as he whisked me around the room to the song, Street Where You Live; a melody that instantly reminds me of my father.  I also remember turning 18 and him buying me my first glass of champagne while telling me that "nice girls" never sit on a barstool.  In that era I suppose they didn't.  Sorry Dad.

His life changed, however, once his grandchildren were born. He had the unique talent of making each of his 15 grandchildren (the 16th was born after his death) feel as if they were the only one he had.  I saw his life take new meaning as he spoke with fondness and pride for each and every one of them.  I think that was about the time in his life when he started carrying candies in his pocket for the young children he would encounter at the doctors office, grocery store or in church.   As I now have learned, life takes on a special meaning with the blessing of grandchildren. Dad sadly, did not live long enough to meet any of his great grandchildren; 8 and still counting.  A pity.  We continue to be blessed with the most amazing family, his legacy.  He would be "over the moon" with each of them.

Dad was a  lifelong Red Sox fan, a legacy he passed on to his children, grandchildren and now great grandchildren.  Sadly he didn't live to see them win the pennant.  I am certain there was dancing in heaven on that particular day.

So happy birthday Dad.  Today I think I'll dance.