One of the most influential people I have had in my life, if not the most is my dad. Harry “Cooner” Strickler was a character, one of those larger-than-life characters. He was 49 when I was born and always wore a crew cut.  I used to describe him as Archie Bunker. He was not quick to praise any of us kids. You only knew he was proud of you because he bragged about you to other people. He was the opposite of polite society. He would brag about you behind your back and tell you everything you were doing wrong to your face. He could be mean 😉But he was my dad and I am grateful for him.

He was part of the Greatest Generation, born in 1921, came to age during the Great Depression, went off to fight in World War 2 as a young man. He was 1 of 7 kids. His dad wasn’t around much and he lost his mom at the age of 15 and had to go live with another family and work on a farm. My dad struggled with alcohol his whole life.

Twelve years ago, I was flying home from Texas. I got to the airport a couple of hours early. While I was waiting for my flight, I happened to come upon an Honor Flight. An Honor Flight was a non-profit organization that flies World War II vets to Washington D.C. for free to see the World War II monument.

I cannot even begin to express how moving it was. They had small ceremony for the veterans before they boarded the plane. The man who greeted them thanked them for their service and their sacrifice. He mentioned the 400,000 plus who their life in war. He talked about how they went off to war as young boys and had to grow up in a matter of months and how they came home men. He said they were truly the greatest generation. They closed the ceremony with everyone singing the national anthem. I was crying like a baby at this point.

As I watched the vets being honored and board the plane, I thought about the cost of war, the price they paid. They may not have lost their lives in the war, but it did cost them. A whole generation of men came home, having witnessed unspeakable horrors, expected to simply re-enter society and rebuild a nation. There was no such thing as PTSD at the time. So they coped anyway they knew how. My dad coped with alcohol.

My dad passed away in 2009 at the age of 87. At his funeral, his youngest brother told me that dad had gone away to war a young kid and come home an old man. War changed him.

I had the honor of living with and taking care of my dad the last 8 years of his life. He began to talk more about the war towards the end of his life. My sister, Nancy, had the opportunity to go to several of his war reunions. It was at these war reunions he reconnected with his best friend from the war, Ollie Olsen. During the last five years or so of Ollie’s life, they would talk on the phone weekly. I remember the incredible sadness my dad experienced when Ollie passed away. I don’t know if I had ever seen my dad cry before that. The bond of war is unbreakable.

At one of the reunions, Ollie told my sister two stories about my dad. The first was how Ollie and my dad had night patrol. They had to sit back-to-back looking opposite ways. It is where the saying “I got your back” came from. They both saw the Germans coming over the ridge. Ollie whispered, “Do you see them?” Dad answered, “Yeah, don’t worry, I am going to mow them down if they get too close”. He was brave. He showed no fear. In Ollie’s second story, a reconnaissance mission required one person. It was a dangerous mission. No one wanted to go so they drew straws. The guy who drew the short straw was a mess. My dad volunteered to go in his place. When asked why, dad simply said, “he has a family, wife, and kids. I’m single. It would be ok if anything happened to me.”

My dad received 4 bronze stars and a good conduct ribbon. We only recently received the medals. I regret that we could not get them while he was alive.

The cost of war is high. My dad struggled with alcoholism for the rest of his life. His family suffered as a result. He also had nightmares. A couple of months before he died, he had a nightmare in which he thought he was back in the war. He was in a meadow and was under heavy fire. He was 87 at the time. His hips were full of arthritis and could only walk with the assistance of a walker, but this night he was as agile and nimble as a 23-year-old. He kept saying, “Where’s my gun? The Germans are coming? We got to get out of the meadow! Now!!!” Thank God he could not get to his guns…he thought I was the enemy. Sixty-four years later he was still on the battlefield.

My dad, as have many others, paid a steep price to protect us, to protect the world. Our family paid a price dealing with his alcoholism and anger throughout the years and all that came with that. He dealt with tremendous guilt. I remember him telling me one day as we ate lunch at the Amvets that the men he killed had moms, dad, wives, and kids at home just like he did. They were kids just like he was.

As a result of his time in the Army during World War II, he developed a very strong belief in the importance of voting. We were always taught the importance of it. He would always tell the story of the first time he voted. It was in Italy, behind a bunker and he voted for FDR and Truman. President Truman would always be his favorite president. Even at the end of his life, when he was on oxygen and using a walker, we would go vote. No absentee for him.

I have been getting family texts from family telling what number they were when they went to vote. It is ingrained in us. Voting is sacred.

I am grateful for all that I have learned from dad. I have learned from the good and the bad. I chose early on not to stay stuck in my own trauma. I always wonder if my dad had been able to overcome his trauma, would he have found the peace he so desperately needed.

I want to leave you with something good I learned from my dad: his willingness to learn late in life. Two stories illustrate this, but I’ll share just one. Five years before my dad died, my oldest brother, Jerry, was dying of cancer. We were heading to his house to celebrate what would be his last birthday. Their relationship had always been rocky, largely because of my dad. On the drive, I told Dad this would be the last time we saw Jerry this side of Heaven and urged him to tell Jerry he loved him and was proud of him. “He knows that. I don’t have to say it,” Dad said. “No, Dad, he doesn’t,” I replied. “Please tell him.” When we arrived, we left them alone in the family room—though, I admit, we eavesdropped. Dad told Jerry he loved him and was proud of him. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. He could have dismissed my advice, but instead, he accepted my advice. It brought peace to both of them.

So today, I thank God for my dad. I am thankful for his service to our country, I am thankful he passed on his love of dogs to all of us, I am thankful for all the many Coonerisms that we still quote, I am thankful for the imperfect way he lived his life. I learned from it all.