The Price

As I write this, it’s Memorial Day. A day we remember those brave men and women who sacrificed their lives to uphold the freedoms that we take for granted. It’s the ultimate act of love, which according to Jesus, there is no greater act.

My father served in the army during World War 2. He spent the majority of his time in Italy. He rarely ever talked about it.

He told me of the time he had a motorcycle he was driving shot out from under him, how it blew up and burned all the hair off his groin and chest. He didn’t act like it was a big deal, but as I have grown older, I now realize it had to be horrifying.

He had a low opinion of pizza, telling me it was nothing like what we think of pizza, it was just bread with the week’s leftovers put on top and covered with a tomato sauce and a little cheese.

After going to Italy, I kind of got what he meant. I think America perfected pizza by integrating all of our cultures into it, and making it amazing.

Joe Thomas went to serve when he was 18 years old, though there were theories that he was only 17. He went willingly, wanting to do his part. A common mindset in young American men at that time.

My mother told me he didn’t come back “right”, in her words.

He battled demons throughout his entire life. He fell into alcohol abuse, then drugs, spiraling out of control until his death at the age of 56.

He made horrible decisions that affected our entire family. He betrayed trust in some ways that I can honestly never forgive.

Joe didn’t die physically in World War 2, but spiritually and mentally, he absolutely perished.

I don’t think he was alone in that.

Society has become much more aware of the price so many soldiers paid. In some ways, those who survived paid an even greater amount.

As years went by, I learned not to trust him. He took me fishing one day, and I was so excited. The idea that my dad would go fishing with me was amazing. He led me to a pond, set up my cane pole with the bobber, and told me to be patient. Then he went back to the car “to get something”. After an hour or so, I became curious and approached the car to determine what he was doing.

I found him passed out in the seat of the car, with two mason jars of moonshine laying on the floor. I tried my best to wake him up, to get him to acknowledge me. We were in a rural area with no signs of civilization for miles. I considered all my options. My mother was at work at the post office, probably 10 miles away. I decided that I would have to drive us there.

I was 8.

I can still remember being terrified, cranking the engine and trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. I had driven a tractor before, but that’s a different situation, being out in a field with a machine that maybe had a top speed of ten miles an hour. It was a black Chevy Impala.

I kept yelling at him to wake up and help me, crying uncontrollably. I made it to the dirt road, and did my best just to point the vehicle in the right direction. I can’t recall how often I ran off the road, but never to the point of becoming stuck. I really became scared when I got to the paved road.

I tried to flag people down, but no one came. I knew the way to the post office, it was probably about 3 miles away, so I made the call to try and make it to mom. I was so scared.

God protected me by having no traffic that I remember. I surmise that I had learned to drive in those first 7 miles, and made it to the small post office. I walked in, and my mother saw my tear stained face and turned white. She asked me what was going on, and I told her. She told me to stay in the post office and went outside to see for herself.

I am a parent now, and I can only imagine how frightened she was, and also tremendously angry. I do not remember the rest of that day, but that morning has been burned into my mind

I never went with him alone again.

I have other stories of finding him passed out, or stumbling, or falling. I did spend time with him, he got a job at a convenience store after he lost his job with the government. Believe it or not, I enjoyed those times, because I would sit in a break room and read all the comics, and he would buy me a frozen sandwich which I warmed up in a microwave. I felt rich.

He would come to our house to visit me and my brother. Mike, my brother, got to the point that he would not go out to talk to him. He had remarried, and I remember his step-son would drive him to our house, because he had been drinking. I still feel sorry for Aaron, who was just trying to do the right thing. He would stand their silently, it must have been so immensely awkward for him, and embarrassing.

They would pull up, and Dad would stand outside. Just stand there, because he was not allowed to come up to our door. My step-father, Mr. Mac, had told him in no uncertain terms that those were the rules. Mr. Mac was a wonderful man, who actually showed kindness to Dad, and sometimes would stand out and talk to him.

Mr. Mac was 6’4” tall, and one of the strongest men I ever knew. The first time I met him, he was lifting an engine out of his VW bus. With just his arms. That will leave an impression.

I never thanked Aaron for driving my father. Thank you my step-brother. You undoubtedly saved lives by doing that.

Joe Thomas died when I was a junior in high school. My brother in law James came and fetched me from school. That was the only time he ever did that. It was unusual, and I had to ask him what was going on.

James married my sister when I was a baby, so I have never not known him. He is a great man, and is as responsible for the adult me as anyone. I was actually blessed with two awesome brothers in laws that include my sister Judy’s husband Johnny. The only reason I don’t include my third brother in law Butch is because he lived in Colorado and I rarely saw him. But when I did, he treated me like a brother.

James had lived a very hard life himself, and is not one to dance around any issues. He looked at me and said “Joe died this morning, Gary. At the VA hospital. I’m very sorry, son.”

I knew this would be the outcome, but I still wasn’t prepared.

My son Jackson asked me about my dad. I told him that if I had to sum him up in one word, it would be “disappointing”. He would always find a way to disappoint you.

He reached his hand out and laid it on my arm and said “Dad, I’m so sorry your father didn’t love you”.

I looked at him in surprise and said “Buddy, you have it all wrong. My father adored me. He loved me so much. He would make me laugh by singing silly songs. He would get me a soda, when I now know that he used his last dollar to do it. He told me every time he saw me how much he loved me, and how sorry he was. I am sorry that I didn’t make it clear, he disappointed me because I knew he loved me, and I loved him very, very much”.

I explained to him that my father had lived a hard life, that included physical abuse from his father. My uncle told me decades later that Ebenezer Thomas was “a mean, mean man, who never got tired of beating us”.

I don’t know, but I can imagine that Dad was glad to get to the army and fight someone other than his father. However, he was not prepared for the horrors of war.

Dad never slept more than 3 hours in all the time I was around him. You died when you slept, so he figured out that he would simply not sleep. The toll that must have taken was enormous.

So many people loved him. When he was sober, he was amazing. He could tell a story that would enthrall everyone within earshot. He was funny. I learned much later in life that my parents had a singing group, and Dad was the comic relief. My sister said that she thinks they could have done something with that career, but he just couldn’t stop drinking, and they would miss shows, or worse yet, he’d be drunk on stage.

If you’ve ever enjoyed me on the radio or on my podcast, and you thought I was funny or interesting, well, that’s Joe Thomas shining through.

He taught me how to be a father, granted those lessons were in what not to do. I lived my first 30 years by deciding what to do by asking myself “would he do this? If so, then I won’t.”

It has served me well. But I also tell my sons I love them every chance I get, and I do my best to prove it.

As I have told them countless times: I may make you angry, or confused, but I will never disappoint you.

So as I sit here on Memorial Day, I honor my father’s sacrifice. I can’t imagine the things he saw and lived through, and I’m grateful that I never will.

My mother raised 5 children and did a fantastic job. She had dropped out of school in the 8th grade, but went back and got her GED because she wanted her kids to know that she did.

He did things that she could never forgive, but she also reminded me of how hard his life had been.

I feel like a major part of him died in Italy. And we were left with a husk of his humanity.

My story is not unique, so many people I’ve talked to had a similar experience.

I thank those that served, that gave a part of themselves that they just couldn’t get back. And thank you to those families that persevered and found a reason to keep going, not only surviving but thriving. There were a lot of sad stories, but also many, many great ones.

I do my best to live my life so my children and wife will be proud of me, especially when I’m not here. I want them to smile when asked about me, with no parts they have to keep hidden from others, even themselves. Let your life be the truth others can see, especially those who know you best.

I still love you, Daddy. I pray you are finally at peace.