Remembering

                                                   

Memorial Day has special significance to me because my father served in the Navy during the Second World War. His name was Winfred H. Perkinson. He was a Chief Petty Officer with the Seabees.

He was a handsome man just over six feet tall with shoulders and a sparkling smile. That smile was how he met my mother. She was on a blind date gone bad. She told her friend, “Find me someone with pearly white teeth.” Her friend brought back my dad.  My dad’s smile was one of the favorite things I remember about him. That, and him singing, “Anytime you’re feeling lonely…” He had a smooth crooner-like voice.

He wasn’t perfect, but he taught me something when I was a young teen that affected my life. When I was fifteen, he took me to a large library in Hagerstown, thirty miles from our home in Frederick. I needed additional material for a school assignment.

On the way home, my “lesson in life” began, although dad didn’t say a word. He took me to a fancy restaurant and bar. I had never been to such a fine place, enjoyed the food, and the ambiance. I noted that several people approached the table, greeted my dad as “Perk,” and teased him about taking a young a girl on a date.

After dinner, we got in the car, and on the way home, we stopped at a succession of bars. At each place we sat down and had something to drink. I was having cokes, I don’t know what dad was drinking. I didn’t pay attention. In every place, people greeted him warmly. Everybody seemed to know my dad. As we continued our interrupted trip home, I began to notice that the establishments we entered were less and less nice. In fact, some places were downright seedy. A drunk hailed my dad at one place and asked me to dance. My dad looked at the man and said, “Get lost.” I felt protected. The last place we visited was called a “beer joint.” It was full of sorry looking people drinking too much. Somebody yelled angrily. Another person vomited. We didn’t stay long there.

After that, we went home. It was about 4:30 in the morning.

My dad and I never talked about our all night jaunt, but I never forgot it.

Without saying a word, my dad showed me what night life and drinking really was. It looked great at the first place, sophisticated even. But by stages, it got worse. I didn’t know it then, but my dad was an alcoholic. In his 70s he developed diabetes, lost a leg, and died of complications from the disease.

In my late teens, I tasted liquor, but didn’t like it. My dad’s all-night object lesson showed me that life. I never had to find my fun at bars. I had seen its reality under the protection of my daddy.

I loved that big ol’ bear of a man who crooned, “Anytime.” And I’ll always remember his silent lesson that may have kept me from becoming an alcoholic.

Thanks, Dad.                                                            Pat Perkinson Zabriskie