As I write these words, my thoughts are of my father. He died twenty years ago yesterday.
Robert Milo Wallin (1923-1993) was an Army infantryman, a platoon leader, in World War
II. He arrived at Normandy a few weeks
after D-Day and fought his way across Europe until, a year later, he was part
of the Army of Occupation after the war.
During those terrible days on the front lines, he developed a smoking
habit, as many did, to steady his nerves.
It was a habit that stuck with him all his life. Forty-eight years after the war ended, he
died of lung cancer. He suffered greatly
at the end, but he died bravely, his final word being “home.” His faith was strong; he knew where he was
going and he wasn’t afraid.
But what I remember most often are the small snippets of
life… not the big moments, but the little ones.
Going on vacation in the family Oldsmobile (always an Oldsmobile), Dad
wearing his special vacation baseball cap with the salmon on the front. Dad fiddling with the cars, or making
something on the grill, or mowing the lawn with his enormous old farm mower. Dad taking us to church and always sitting in
the fourth row, or serving communion with silent respect. Dad having his customary 20-minute nap at
lunchtime, on the couch, under Grandma’s afghan, nearly every day for forty
years. Dad taking photos in the old
black-and-white days and developing them himself, using the downstairs bathroom
as his darkroom. Dad taking on my honors
English teacher (and winning) or my physics teacher (and losing—but doing a
hilarious, dead-on impression of him after he got home). Dad at Grandma and Grandpa Wallin’s house
every Friday night, lying on the couch watching TV, and then at exactly 9:00
p.m. saying, “You birds get your shoes on—it’s time to go home.” Dad’s gigantic tomato plants, growing up the
trellises that he’d made himself. Dad
talking about the war, late at night, when his guard was down and the stories
came out. The Greatest Generation,
indeed.
I remember a conversation I had with my sister a few days after
Dad died. I was just 38 when we lost
him, and she was 34. We felt like we’d
been shortchanged, losing him so soon. My
sister said to me, “Would you rather have had our dad for 35 years—or some
other dad for longer?” And we both
decided that we wouldn’t have traded him for anyone else, even though he left
us too soon.
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