The things you find

My parents dresser drawers are more like junk drawers in the last few years, some of them longer than that. We moved a lot of their clothes downstairs when their health started failing.

So I was going through them to  see what we could keep and what we needed to give away or through away or donate.

In one drawer I found my dad's diploma from grade school and then his junior high diploma. My dad left school to join the coast guard during WWII.

I also found that letter that President Truman sent to all the men who fought in the war.

That war affected my father, in ways you didn't know until his health issues started giving him dementia. I'm pretty sure he had PTSD when he returned home.

Every time I hear about Okinawa, Japan, I cringe.

I found some of his papers from his time working at Corning Glass here in Charleroi (Pyrex), PA. He took such pride in his work there.

I love finding this parts of my father that were kept hidden, but in other ways they have brought me lots of tears in the past few days, because I want to talk to him about them. I want to hug him and tell him I love him.

I also found some of my mom's old yearbooks and one had a particularly poignant poem

So in the spirit of Bilbo's Poetry Sunday

Away


I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead- . He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you- O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return- ,

Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes- .

Mild and gentle, as he was brave- ,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave v To simple things- : Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, v The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain- .

Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead- he is just away!

James Whitcomb Riley