Heart Happy (cathy_edgett) wrote,
Heart Happy

The Lone Ranger

I was raised in the 50's, a time when men were stoic, which isn't to say they aren't now, but I think you know what I mean.  My father was good and kind and generous, but I don't think I ever saw him cry.  What I know about what he experienced during WWII came from my brother's exploration on Google many years after my father's death.  He googled our father's name, and there it was listed in a barracks in a prisoner of war camp.  There were photos.  My father had been a pilot of a B-17.  The plane was shot down over Austria, and he parachuted out and landed in an apple tree, and was handed over by the village people to the SS and taken on a train to a camp.  It turned out my brother lived near the navigator of the plane and we went to visit him.  He took us to lunch and told us our father was just as we knew him, a man of honor and reserve.  He spent his time in the prison camp reading books.  He read all the books in the library.  My father never judged those who held him.  He understood.  He said they had no food either.  The Red Cross packages saved his life, though he never again ate Spam.

I read this today and think of my father.  http://www.cnn.com/2013/06/16/opinion/greene-lone-ranger/index.html?eref=mrss_igoogle_cnn

It was a different generation, and I applaud the changes that have been made, the therapeutic explorations that are open to us, and I think of my father today.  The last time I saw him I was getting on a plane to go to Mexico City.  He hadn't wanted me to go so far away, but I was 19, and excited.  I got on the plane and cried.  He had hugged me in a way of never letting go.  His eyes were huge.  I got the phone call a few days later. I learned that he had been killed on a beautiful day riding his motorcycle.  Of course, no helmet, in those days.  I felt he was such a gifted, warm-hearted, loving man that God just reached down and lifted him up.  He couldn't wait any longer, wanted him close.  I don't think the wounds from his death closed for me until my mother's death. When we scattered her ashes, we saw my mother and father rising together, holding hands.  They were formed of golden flakes of light.  They floated up into the trees.

I read a book last night, Proof of Heaven, A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife.  It is by Eben Alexander.  I found comfort in it.  I suppose we can't really "know", and yet, I feel my parents close, especially today.   May this day give each of us what we need.

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