My dad and I had a strained relationship for most of my childhood. I knew he loved me, but he had trouble showing affection, as most men of his generation did, and as a 6’4” Marine, his presence could be intimidating at times. His job was incredibly demanding, so he was gone a lot. He left for work before I got up, usually came home just as we started dinner, and would go to bed by 9pm. He worked a lot of Saturdays. And he was deployed overseas several times. Two tours in Okinawa, one for a year and another for six months, a few months on a ship in the Pacific when my kid brother was born, 4 months cold weather training in Norway, 8 months my junior year in The Persian Gulf War. Every time he came home it almost felt like having to get to know him all over again. And we moved every 2-3 years, which was rough on me as a kid.
Still, I loved having a Marine as a dad, and was proud as hell of him. He won the Silver Star in Vietnam, and had several infantry commands over the course of his career: platoon commander, company commander, battalion commander and regimental commander. I loved growing up on Marine Corps bases, surrounded by uniformed Marines, stopping on the road for a tank crossing, and seeing helicopters fly overhead on a regular basis. Dad retired from active duty after 27 years as a full-bird Colonel, and moved us to Texas for his post-Marine career.
For whatever reason, as soon as I left for college, our relationship changed, and we became great friends. I enjoyed spending time with him, and for about 25 years, he was my tailgate buddy at Longhorn football games. He retired from his civilian job in 2010 and moved to Georgetown 40 minutes away from me, so he and my mom have been a constant presence in their grandkids’ lives.
Since he wasn’t around for most of my childhood, he didn’t teach me all that much. But he taught me two things for which I’m grateful. The first is fishing. His dad taught him how to fish growing up in Oregon, and he taught me at an early age. I learned from him how to cast a net and catch a bunch of minnows, and filet them for bait. When he was deployed, I’d take my gear, bike to the neighborhood pier, and fish by myself for hours, feeling like my dad’s son. Unfortunately I haven’t fished for years, but those are some of the best memories I have as a kid.
The second thing he taught me was how to make people laugh on a regular basis. I think his unofficial rule was to make somebody laugh every day, usually at his expense. He has a gift for self-deprecating humor, and it rubbed off on me.
Oh, and he was a hell of an athlete. He played offensive tackle, defensive lineman, and punter for a state champion football team, he was a power forward, and he attended Oregon State on a baseball scholarship. Those genes passed me by.
He turned 80 last March, and he seems to be fading faster. He has more trouble getting around. Usually I have to help him to and from the car when he comes over for visits. And he regularly tells me the same story about 2-3 times in a single phone call. He’s still very much The Colonel (the name I’ve affectionately called him since adulthood). But I’m afraid my time with him is shorter, and I know that, like Brisket, it’s going to be so fucking hard when he’s gone. I’m thankful for these days I have with him in my life.
Semper Fi, Dad.