When I visited the gentleman in the picture below, he said he and his two nephews (they are about fifteen years older than me) had recently watched South Pacific. Not the movie version but the television version. Said it was pretty good. The scenery was extremely well done. It was depicted pretty much as he remembered it. And so, some parts were kind of hard to take. For example, he says there is a scene in which the fighter pilots come in to land and everyone cheers.
He remembers sitting in the outdoor movie theater between the palm trees, and when the planes came in roaring overhead everyone would get up and cheer for every single one. And they would count them.
Everyone on the base of course knew how many had gone out that morning. And usually they would all come back. But not always. Sometimes, the count would be less than it should be.
And remembering this, sixty-six or sixty-seven years later, my father's voice would catch the tiniest amount, and he'd stop, and with moistened eyes just sort of shake his head.
Now he lumbers along as pictured below. His knees hurt, his feet hurt, his hips hurt. He gets less and less work done on his pet projects. He's decided his driving days are over.
I watch him watch his curtain coming down, and I get a little ashamed of my own self-indulgent depression, because he's actually pretty cheerful overall.
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5 comments:
If his life was a good one, and he's tired, he may be okay with the curtain coming down. You're still young enough to want to fulfill some inner longings, so to think about the end when you're not ready for it IS depressing. For some, they're ready to go. It's not depressing at all. I don't know if that's the case with your dad, of course.
I can see being ready. Maybe as our bodies fail, we just let go, because we have to; and as we let go, we find there really isn't all that much to hang onto anyway. His mother was absolutely ready when it was her time. Sharp as a tack at ninety seven, but when she went to the horse-pistol for some minor pneumonia bout, well, she went to sleep. And his father: Once out of his house, he refused to eat, and just faded away.
My, how cheerful am I. Good thing it's bedtime.
"...he'd stop, and with moistened eyes just sort of shake his head."
War, any war, will have the effect of never leaving those involved. My father used to almost fall apart whenever he'd see something about the USS Franklin and what happened to it and its crew near Okinawa, or when discussing Tarawa. My wife's uncle will simply not discuss WW2 at all.
Vietnam vets I have known similarly fall silent, one clearly choking up and really unable to speak even if he wanted to. I feel extremely lucky that I never had to go through any of that, even as a REMF.
Lovely writing, lovely photo.
One thing about aging: you get to be in the moment (and the past) more, less in the future. Future's exciting but there most worry resides, too.
I think AJ's right.
My grandmother Harper had the flu when my granddad went into horse pistol. He waited. And waited. And waited until she was well enough to come and say good bye.
My own mom had breast cancer that metastasized. We had plenty of warning. I flew down here and spent about six weeks with my folks. Anne and daughter Kris came down for a while. We all had good vacationing and cuddle time. And when we all headed north, she said to my dad, "It's time to go to the Manor." (Marathon Manor was still in operation as a nursing home then). She called me from there to let me know it was time and pretty much to ask permission to say good bye.
We had plenty of warning but it wasn't enough.
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