A Little Piece Of History...

As I grow older, I find it interesting how friends and others talk about and describe their parents. As children turn into adults, the way they see and interact with their parents change. They see things in a whole new perspective. They have the advantage of seeing their parents as human beings, not just those responsible for raising them.

But when a parent passes away when their children are young, the child is left with an empty reality, one that must be built as time goes on. Even though my father passed away just after I turned eight-years old, I was fortunate enough to have others in my life, others who grew up with my dad, and my mother who married him, others who told me stories.

There are stories of the man, a boy born during the depression, who grew up in a broken home, who enlisted for WWII at age eighteen, who was a cop, a security guard, an engineer, and a judge. Still, even with all these stories, I don't know my father the way my friends know and knew theirs. Time gives them an advantage. 

After my mother passed away, my brother and sister-in-law came in possession of some of my father's things, one of which they put on display in their home. My father was an expert marksman, one of the many stories I heard growing up about the man. As a deputy, my father scored a perfect shooting score. I've been told it was the first one ever scored in Idaho, and according to some family members, it could possibly be the first perfect shooting score of anyone west of the Mississippi River.

I'd have to do more research to make sure about that one.

But no matter how significant the score was or wasn't, it's meaningful to me. My father used his shooting skills to feed his brothers during the depression. Imagine counting on a steady hand to eat. We know nothing of that kind of pressure in our day. Due to his skills, he was chosen to be a tail gunner on a B-17 crew in WWII. Once again, it's hard to imagine the bravery it took to do that job.

As the years pass, fewer and fewer are left who even knew my father. The stories of him seem to fade as well. Thankfully, there are those who have taken the time to preserve those little pieces of history.