ABS

It's that time of year again. Well, actually past that time of year, based on the ninety degree weather we had last week.

The wallet

I was digging through my closet, looking for the tub of summer clothes, when I happened upon a container labeled "ABS."

Now sidetracked from my original task, I dragged out the big plastic bin with my dad's initials on it and peered inside.

It's been some time since I packed up all of this stuff and and put it away. This is my dad's collection of souvenirs, photos and whatnot. (Mostly "whatnot.")

Like a good Catholic, my dad carried a missal to church with him. He also had a book of works by St. Alphonsus, although this was dated 1911, so it must have been his dad's. I have his baby book, which is a treasure, filled with photos of my dad holding various cats, dogs and rabbits, others with his sisters, and entries from my grandmother about his childhood milestones. There are mementos from high school days, including his diploma, ticket stubs from high school football games and some pictures of his friends goofing around in the stands. A packet of postcards from Milwaukee -- not sure if he went there or someone else did -- and from Euclid Beach Park.

Then there is the war stuff. His Selective Service Registration Card. Three handmade leather items -- two look like they could hold a pack of cigarettes, the third is a wallet. I think all three are Moroccan. A brochure from the Office Marocain du Tourisme. And a flyer that is titled "Morocco," but someone has written "Galleries De Lafayette" and "Mi ami" on the front.

Dad with his sisters: Jean, Rosemary and Pauline.

Then, there's the notebook. It is inscribed with a series of dates that follow my dad's time in the service during World War II. The first is: "January 25, 1943 - arrived induction center Camp Perry. Home for weekend 1-30." The final entries are "June 10, 1945 Transferred to P.B.S. Army" and "June 14 Naples." It struck me as odd that the list ended with this entry. There is an earlier mention of D-Day, but nothing about the bombing of Japan in August of 1945. The only other notations in the notebook are addresses of army buddies, some with APO listings, others with street addresses in Nebraska, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

Lastly, there is his address book, which looks like he used it from the time he was in grammar school until he got out of the army. One page is torn out. I wonder why. And who are all of these people? Are they all gone now?

I know this is so cliche, but I wish I could sit down and go through all of this stuff with my dad. He was never very communicative with us kids growing up. In my youngest days, I was afraid of him. His temper was quick and fierce. I knew that he loved me, but I didn't want to press matters. It wasn't until I reached high school, when he began to mellow, that I started to forge a real relationship with him. Even then, I didn't know of the existence of these items. I knew he'd been to Morocco and Italy in the war. We teased him about the Italian signorina he left behind. He would smile that faraway smile and reveal nothing.

I don't know, maybe I'm getting this way because tomorrow is Father's Day. As I'm sitting here typing, I look up at the cheesy reproduction painting of the sexy Spanish flamenco dancer that my mother loathed, but my father insisted on hanging in the dining room. And I smile.

I love you, dad. Happy Father's Day.