esrosedotblog

REPLAY

When I was 8 (1945), we had been through a family ordeal.

My Dad had joined the US Navy in 1943 and had spent the two years away on a destroyer escort, first in the North Atlantic runs back and forth to England and then, finally, in the Pacific where he was wounded.

It was a normal day. I was in the dining room.

I looked out and my Dad was getting out of someone's car.

He had been discharged and had come home for good.

The memory is indelible.

The feelings even more so.

I guess that is why I responded so to this when I saw it.

It should say Sailor not Soldier but I can handle it.

I knew he was a sailor!

Labels: Iraq, nostalgia