First Light lived up to her name once again. The anchor came up at about the same time as the sun, and we motored off for another day of sailing through the mountains. The Hudson gets a bit more twisty the further inland it goes, eventually bending around West Point before it opens up into a larger body of water flowing under the Newburgh-Beacon bridges.
Passing by West Point sparked some hard memories for me. My dad was a military man who had applied to West Point. While waiting for an answer, he was assigned to a tank company, a company that was part of the force that landed at Incheon Korea. A few months later, and while still “in country”, he received word that he had been accepted and the Army sent him back to the States to start classes. After his first year, he was first in his class. No small feat at West Point. But, somewhere in there, he met and fell in love with my Mother. He asked permission from the Army to get married but they turned him down. So he resigned, changed schools, and got a degree in Mechanical Engineering instead. Insofar as I can tell, it was the only true anti-authoritarian stance he ever took.
The years passed. The Vietnam war was in full swing, as were the Civil rights, Women's rights, and environmental protection movements. My dad looked on the first two as people demanding rights he thought they already had who were demanding special treatment. The last he saw as utter bunk propagated by hippies. His long-haired, jeans-wearing, rebel teenaged eldest son (me) was a vocal supporter of each, even taking part in some of the protests. The morning after the National Guard opened fire on anti-war protesters in Ohio, we had a bitter fight, the aftermath of which lingered for a very long time. In addition, I was in constant trouble at school with a deeply ingrained anti-authoritarian streak. (Something that remains to this day.) It would not be too much of a stretch to say that we didn't get along that well. I managed to escape High School with a diploma. Then I finished Tech School third in a class of seventy plus, got married, and moved away at the age of 19.
More years passed, and things improved between us. His eldest was a father of three of his grandkids and a successful pilot, mechanic, and manager. We could sit and chat over a beer without harsh words or hurt feelings. There were still subjects we tiptoed around, but we worked hard at finding common ground. We even worked on some projects together that proved successful. He started riding motorcycles and we took a few trips together. He also made a couple of long distance airplane flights with me flying for various family reasons. That I actually managed to be pretty good in some challenging fields, both surprised him a little and pleased him to no end.
Near the end of his life, my brothers and sister had to make some very hard decisions about the care both my parents required. My sister and I took the brunt of the blame for moving them out of the house they had lived in for more than 50 years and into a home where they could receive the care and physical support they needed. I don't think my dad ever really forgave me for that. Something I completely understand.
When he passed, I was hundreds of miles away living and traveling on Kintala. As we motored past West Point, I thought about my dad and the lifetime we shared. I'm not really the type that has “prized possessions”, but I do have one. It is the bayonet my dad carried ashore that day at Incheon. Whatever I might think about war and the authorities that give the orders to start and fight wars, however I might feel about societies and ideologies that support the oppression of others over skin tone, gender, sexual preference, or religion, my dad had the courage to do what he believed was his duty and did his part in battle. He made the hard choice between a military career or getting married and starting a family. He took care of that family through some very turbulent years. When that bayonet gets handed over to the next generation, I hope the caretaker understands that it is a symbol of courage and dedication that his or her great grandfather has passed on as a part of their heritage.
As we motored past West Point, I stood out on the bow, taking in the beauty of the surroundings and thinking about my life that had led up to that moment. And I couldn't help but wish things had been better between my dad and I. But he stood his ground. And I stood mine. Maybe, just maybe, he was okay with the fact that I did. And maybe that is the best any of us can do.
1 comment:
Well said.
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