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Reminiscing About My Father


When I reminisce about my father I often remember him as a man of few words. He was a lot like that E. F. Hutton guy. When he had something to say, I listened. Most of the time his actions spoke more than mere words ever could.

Some of my earliest memories are of him carrying me in his arms. I felt safe there. He was strong, had large hands, hairy arms, and he smelled like Aqua-Velva aftershave. He had a presence about him that radiated a quiet peace.

That being said, I can only imagine how an orphaned little boy felt when he was picked up by my father during World War II.

Daddy’s tank clattered into a bombed-out town somewhere in Europe one cold winter’s day. Among the rubble he found a small boy wandering, lost and afraid. Though neither could understand what the other was saying, the language barrier made no difference when Daddy picked him up. He was safe.

He scrounged around and found something for the kid to eat and drink. It was a rare, bright moment for him during his 269 days of continuous combat as Patton’s Third Army pushed through Europe from Normandy to Germany.

I suppose finding that child reminded him why he was there in the first place. He nick-name the boy Blondie. On the back of the old photo I found among his things is scribbled in his handwriting, Blondie and a Ho-Bo.

If you look behind the child asleep in the stroller you’ll see my father in the background, watching over him sleeping beneath a blanket. Daddy appeared worn and weary, but the look in his eyes speaks volumes about the man I knew as my father.

Not long after he found Blondie, his outfit was ordered to pull out and continue pushing toward Germany. What was he to do with the child? He couldn’t leave him behind. He would starve or freeze to death. He did the only thing he could do. He kept the child with him until he found a family that took him in. Like the Good Samaritan, he made sure he was taken care of before he moved on.

I remember Daddy telling me about Blondie more than once and each time he told the story he always wondered out loud, “I wonder what became of that little boy.”

We’ll never know. My father didn’t even know the kid’s real name. I’d like to think the folks who took him in told him about the American that saved him. Perhaps he grew up and wondered what happened to the soldier that rescued him.

On Veteran’s Day we are often reminded to thank veterans for everything they have done for us, but we should also thank them for what they’ve done for others they either never knew. They changed the world for more folks than just us. You veterans are all heroes in my book.

But the quiet man who smelled of Aqua-Velva will always be my personal hero. He passed away the day after my birthday in 1976, and I wasn’t mature enough at that time to realize all the sacrifices he had made for me. I never thanked him for his service, for what he did for our country and a lot of folks on the other side of the world.

I’d like to believe somehow he knows I appreciate what he did. Thanks Daddy.

_______________
Rick Algood
November 11, 2016

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