Here are a couple of things we left behind in my father's closet.
My mother knitted him the sweater. We called it his Civil War sweater. She didn't have enough yarn of either color, so she used both, and what color combination could be more fitting for a professor of American History?
The uniform is from his Navy days, but I'm not sure which set of Navy days. I know he retired as a Commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve in the early 1970s, but I remember him going to meetings in dress whites. Perhaps this uniform coat is from that time, too. On the other hand, it might be from his days in "T.H.," the adddress on letters to him that I finally figured out stood for Territory of Hawaii. He served there, starting in February-ish of 1943, for 27 months.
Neither the coat nor the sweater captures his essence. He was neither as mild as the sweater would suggest nor as disciplined as the uniform implies.
He understood borders, though. He knew that there were some lines in the sand that you must draw for yourself and that you must thereafter abide by absolutely. He knew that positioning those lines might require some dithering. But once drawn, those lines or borders were absolute.
For example, he didn't believe in profiting from wrongdoing. He also firmly believed that higher education gives human beings a greater understanding that leads to personal enlightenment and a better world for everyone. I only wish I shared that particular belief.
He also was a firm advocate of the two-party system and would point to the recent weirdnesses in Canadian politics as failings of minority governments. But that's a story for another day. Perhaps tomorrow.
Yes, it was difficult to leave behind these belongings. But they belonged to him, not to me. They are wrapped up in the father I grew to love best as an adult, and that's the father I'll never lose.
So let those who collect military memorabilia have the jacket. Let the thrift shop give the sweater to a homeless person. Let my father touch their lives, too. He would have liked that.
