| During my last year in high school, my father informed me there’d be no college unless I paid for it myself, so I told him, “Fine, I’ll join the army.”
That did it. Dad never needed much provocation to blow up, but that
time, he really exploded. His face turned red, his cheeks quivered, and
his lips curled into a snarl. “I’ll blow your head off with
my own shotgun before I see you in the army. There’s a war on,
and I’ll be damned if you’ll go over there and get your ass shot
off. A
wounded kid is a chain around his parents’ ankles. Your choices
are limited to the air force or navy.”
Good old Dad. Always
the thoughtful one.
Living with my father was like being kenneled with General
Patton. Steely-eyed
and inflexible, he rarely showed affection toward his children. He had
been in an army anti-aircraft unit during WWII, and I think he brought the
war home with him, because he never let go of his tough, army sergeant persona. Prone
to fits of violent anger, when Dad looked at me, gritted his teeth and curled
his lips, I knew I was in trouble. I swear to you, when very angry, he
growled like a wolf.
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