Sheila Sims Iding
Like many people my age, my father fought in a war. He fought in a World War. He was a World War II veteran…but before that, he was a World War II soldier. Before that he was a little kid from Canada who loved books about flying. His dad died when he was 6 so he moved to the United States with his mom and two brothers. He became a U.S. Citizen and that allowed him to be a soldier in the United States Air Force.
My dad and I had a lot of talks as I grew up. Because he was both mom and dad to me, I feel like I got double time with him. I feel like I was extra close to him and his philosophies and the life lessons he instilled in my days…in my heart.
He talked to me about many things. We talked fun times: how to train a new puppy, how to plant a vegetable garden, how to sing the Spartan fight song, how to make Boston Cream Pie for family conferences on Sunday evening and the proper execution of a squeeze bunt.
We talked stern stuff: How to work harder for your allowance, how to improve that “C” in algebra, how to walk away from an umpire’s bad call, how to be still (really still) when pheasant hunting and just as still during MSU Shadows, how to never take a called third strike and how to run on and off the field…or don’t play at all.
We even talked tough stuff: How to bury a pet, how to make ends meet when they weren't even close, how to go through the details of his funeral plans before his heart surgery (just in case) and how to pick out the color of your mom’s casket.
But the one thing he never talked about…never…was the war. So there is very little I know about him as a solider...him as a fighter pilot...him as a veteran.
I don’t know what it feels like to enlist in the middle of a World War.
I don’t know what it feels like to leave your family, your loved ones, your educational goals, your small town in Michigan to fight for freedom.
I don’t know what that training was like for an athlete who loved challenges.
I don’t know what pride musters up in the heart of a pilot when he earns his wings and pins them on his uniform for the first time.
I don’t know what it is like to ride on that plane over an ocean to engage in the battle of the world…and the battle of your life.
I don’t know what it’s like to hear gunshots, hear bombs and hear the news that your buddy went down.
I don’t know what it’s like to get that Dear John letter he got…and where he was that day and how does your heart break when it is already battle-worn.
I don’t know what happened to that little dog he held in a couple of pictures from his base in Europe.
I don’t know what it is like to come home to a victor’s parade…and which of his buddies came with him. And which ones didn't.
When your dad, who has shared every facet of his life with you in more heart-to-heart talks than most daughters are privy to…every page of his life is an open book. Except the soldier page…the whole war chapter is an unknown. He never talked about it. He couldn't.
So as the daughter of a soldier this is all I know:
When this day used to be called Decoration Day, you buy red geraniums and you go to the neighborhood cemetery and you plant them wherever there is a flag and no flowers.
When you hear the National Anthem you don’t just stand tall and proud, you put your hand over your heart. It’s optional for some people. Not for that soldier…or his daughters.
When the anthem ends with the words “land of the free and the home of the brave”…you seem to blink more quickly.
When you are a soldier in the war, having that puppy on base seemed to provide some sort of therapy that no human could.
When the Christmas cards come each year, the ones from his Air Force buddies are in separate stack. A special stack. The camaraderie transcends miles and age and memories.
When you get older and watch M.A.S.H on TV, a veteran pilot sometimes cries…even though it was a comedy.
When you ask about the tears he tells you when you drop a bomb from a plane you sometimes kill more than soldiers. You kill mothers and children and pets. The pain in his eyes answers more than his words.
His childhood books are about pilots and planes and flying and when you ask him about his love of flying, he tells you he doesn’t love flying anymore. Enough said.
When the questions require painful answers retrieved from memories hidden with honor and coated with pride, you learn not to ask questions anymore. You learn some memories are sacred and are buried in the hallowed soul of a soldier.
So as I reflect on this Memorial Day, I don’t know a lot about my dad as a solider…a pilot…a veteran. All I know is the pride he had serving his country. Not just my dad…but every soldier who trained and fought and trembled and prayed to help this land of the free stay that way. God bless these soldiers. This is my prayer. This is all I know.