War Wounded... Heart Broken

September of 2006, I posted a little something about a person very near and dear to me. This was a time when my blog was mainly rambling thoughts and half-assed poetry attempts. I hope those of you who occasionally read my fiction, will forgive me for the ramble and repost.

Want to See My War Wound?

When I think of veterans, my ex-step dad comes to mind. Ex, yes, now removed. My poor mother will never be happy – she takes OCD to a whole other level. My ex-step dad was this incredibly awesome person. He always did things for me and my sister, like help coach our softball teams, take us fishing, and was active in our school. He did, however, have a way of freaking all my friends out by showing off his war wound.

He was honorably discharged from service after being shot in the Vietnam War. The bullet had pierced his abdomen and exited out of his back, leaving him with this hole that looked like someone just dug out flesh with a spoon. Unlike most draft dodgers during that time, he willingly went off to war; he wasn’t even of age – had his folks sign the necessary paperwork to ship him off, because he couldn’t wait to protect and serve.

I can only imagine what it’s like from his stories and the many movies I have seen. War changes you. I don’t think he was diagnosed, but I am sure he had post traumatic stress. You couldn’t touch him while he was sleeping or try to tap him to wake him up--you would likely lose your head. He would wake up swinging, ready for the fight… very sad, but humorous to a young teenager. I think I perfected the art of tap and run just to catch a glimpse of the man in the act of self defense.

Yeah, I am probably going to go to hell for that--one of the many things on my list of BAD things.

Even though he had been to Vietnam, he was still more laid back than my mom. He caught me ditching school at the lake one nice April afternoon. He was conveniently fishing close to where we were semi-naked cliff diving.  

We, my friends and I, weren’t too smart--all stoned out of our gourds and drinking wine. I saw his truck on the horizon and made a mad dash to my friend’s car--dove into the front seat and laid there, eyes closed—like I was invisible. I heard him stop--questioning all of my friends. I laid in the seat; eyes closed, holding my breath. I heard footsteps and then the tapping of glass.

When I finally glanced up, he stood there with a very irritated look on his face, giving me the finger. Not the one you’re thinking. It was the “come here, I’m not EVEN going to say anything” finger.

GULP.

I got out of the car and followed him over to the truck where he said few words — told me he was disappointed in me, but he didn’t make me leave.

I’ll be damned if I went back to school--no way. I think we spent the rest of the day off-roading in a friend’s beat up car.

The awesome thing... he never told my mom.

I did end up in trouble though. My mother found a check I wrote to Pizza Hut for eighty bucks that day. Yeah, I know, I already told you “we weren't too smart.” She ratted me out to the principal of my school, and I got in-house suspension.

Even though my mother and he divorced right after I graduated high school, I still see him. He takes Gabe golfing, and even lets him drive the cart; he brings gifts at Christmas and birthdays for the kids; he calls from time to time to see how everyone is; and I even talked him into coaching our Co-ed softball team a couple of years. 

War may make men tough, but I think it gave him an appreciation for things that we tend to take for granted. I love my mother dearly, but she never took an interest in what we did as kids, he seemed to genuinely appreciate the time he spent with us, making the most of it. My mother may have removed him from our family, but my sister and I... we kept him.
~2

Today, the world lost a great man. Not only was Dawson Ogletree an awesome dad, but he was one of the most genuine people I have ever met. It sucks not to be able to tell him how much he meant to me... I guess I will settle with telling you.