Monday, May 28, 2012


My father found himself during WWII, in a platoon of Italian guys.  In fact, he was maybe the only non-Italian.  Marty was in that group and he and my dad spent the entire three-year-stint together, assigned to Africa and then France before finally coming home. 

They became dear friends and stayed in touch until my dad died just over a year ago.   

"Hey you fat, (bleepslob" is how my father would begin every phone conversation with Marty, and I came, over the years, to understand just how lovingly those words were spoken.

Marty, now ninety, left me a voice mail message today: 

"Well, I've been calling this number (meaning my dad)
for the last twenty years and old habits are hard to break. 
Hope all is well there. 
I can't help it; Ernie's been on my mind all day. 
Stay well.  Talk to you later. 
Love ya.  Ciao."

I returned the call but missed him.  It's likely a good thing; I'm certain to have called him a fat, (bleep) slob.

Memorial Day 2012

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