Monday, August 27, 2007
The One-Armed Man
Today is my dad's birthday. He is now 85. Fifteen years away from 100. He was born in the hills of Arkansas and you will not meet a finer man. He survived World War II and came home with a bronze star and purple hearts. One night at in Memphis at International Harvester he lost his right hand in a machine accident. He had so much to overcome physically and emotionally, but with help a few good folks, he made it back to work. When I was faced with my disfigured body loosing both breasts after a double mastectomy I knew he understood me. He knew that feeling of loss and grief. I still partner with him in my heart everyday. I called him this morning to say happy birthday and he was there to answer the phone. That's all that matters. Everyone loves my daddy, but if you are speaking about him, he is usually referred to as the one-armed man. That means something, but that's not what sets him apart.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Dad's are special.
I have some things about me that are like my Dad.
My husband's Dad was born in 1879, also in the hills of Arkansas, he was older than my own Dad's father.
He had been a deputy at the turn of the 20th century and had lost his right arm just above his elbow.
We never really knew how it happened. He died when my husband was just nine.
Watching Wyatt Earp yesterday with my husband, I told him that his Dad could have lost the arm in the line of duty, that it must have been similar to the show for the time that he lived in.
This probably isn't a good comment, is it?
How did Patsy do?
Post a Comment