Peter Richmond is a good man, loyal friend, and a gifted writer. Here he is at his best, writing about his father for GQ in December of 1993. The article was the genesis of Richmond’s beautiful memoir, My Father’s War: A Son’s Journey.
To celebrate Father’s Day—and much respect and love to all the dad’s out there—I can think of no finer piece to share with you. Head on over to the Beast and check out–“My Father’s War”:
He survived Guadalcanal, and then New Britain, and then Peleliu, and came home in 1944 to take over the family business, manufacturing paper bags in a gray factory next to the railroad tracks in Long Island City. He married the woman who would become my mother and moved to Westchester County, and died in 1960, at the age of 44, when I was 7, so I never had much of a chance to ask him about his war.
But it was always there. I could hold it to my face. My father’s war was tucked into the trunk that sat in the darkest corner of the cellar: a Japanese flag, stained with Rorschach blotches of blood, the red circle still bright, the field of white crowded with the Japanese characters that identified the man whose blood graced it.
As a child, I spent a lot of time with the flag, running it through my hands, marveling at the liquid feel of the silk, at how different it was from the rest of my father’s memorabilia: the .30-caliber Japanese machine gun, the Japanese hand grenade, the rifles–all of them so inconceivably heavy and redolent of good grease and iron that I knew they carried the real weight of war.
Thanks, AB, and Peter Richmond.
My dad died four days ago. It was his war, too.
Oh, man. Tough father's day.
A few years ago I was sitting in an outdoor square in Central Europe and a man approached speaking Dutch. I got the impression he was thanking me for something. In Europe always look for a young person to translate. A lovely young girl told me he was thanking me for liberating Holland in the war. I told him I couldn't take the credit it was my Dad's generation but thank you anyway. Nice to know they haven't forgotten. Happy Father's Day to all the Dads.
Ouch.
House money day.
Top one was a real kick in the nuts. And when YES showed the defensive graphic I thought. "I look forward to some good defense from Didi today.". Grrrrrrrrrrrrr....
Tuckered out from all that hitting yesterday.
This game sucks. Fuck!
That's better.
Chip chip chip away.
Not out of the game yet
jesus. another bomb for j.d.
Tanaka was bound to have a bad game
Tough night. Sitting on a roof top in Rome, sipping wine and watching the sun go down. The wife can't understand why I'm listening to the yanks.
ONG!
I've got a bathroom to clean
so much for our run diff...
Last night's game was much more fun.
1) Oh, man. My heart goes out to you, brother. Big hugs.
Shoot, I forgot to post the game thread. Oh, well. Sorry about that, guys.
[18] Just as well. This one should be forgotten before it's remembered.
[1] Sorry, man. Take care. In May, we scattered my Dad's ashes in Pearl Harbor. He was on the USS Tennessee during the attack.
My Dad was in New Guinea. Came home broken. Died when I was a kid, too. Never talked about the war. Mom said he brought it home and it killed him. Teeth and hair fell out. Bumps grew on his body. Early agent orange, maybe. Never know.
As for Steven Drew, just when you think he has had it, he hits it. Meaningless?
[1] so sorry, you will always remember his virtues and the origins of your own behavior.
WWII was my dad's war as well. Flew on B-29s over "The Hump". He died over 25 years ago, a youngish man of 69. I think about him at some point every day.
He loved the Yankees...
21) I'm so sorry for your dad's experience.