My father was a storyteller, but he died suddenly when I was fifteen. There are so many bits of things he would say or that I know as data that I hadn't really thought about yet, or that I was still masticating in my slow way, and so hadn't asked about when he died, and now think about. Your subject line suddenly made me realize something I'd never thought of at all. When he was flown to the Pacifc front in the Second World War as technical sergeant of a signal corps, it was probably in one of those bare big-bellied planes, and almost certainly his first airplane flight. He, this big strong former farm boy and more recent factory hand.
How strange it must have been to him.
(Another thing I have thought about a good deal: I think it was a peculiar difficulty to him to be constantly jammed up with other soldiers during the war. He was devoted to diverse community, but he was also innately kind of a loner.)
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
And just your subject line gave a weird gift.
My father was a storyteller, but he died suddenly when I was fifteen. There are so many bits of things he would say or that I know as data that I hadn't really thought about yet, or that I was still masticating in my slow way, and so hadn't asked about when he died, and now think about. Your subject line suddenly made me realize something I'd never thought of at all. When he was flown to the Pacifc front in the Second World War as technical sergeant of a signal corps, it was probably in one of those bare big-bellied planes, and almost certainly his first airplane flight. He, this big strong former farm boy and more recent factory hand.
How strange it must have been to him.
(Another thing I have thought about a good deal: I think it was a peculiar difficulty to him to be constantly jammed up with other soldiers during the war. He was devoted to diverse community, but he was also innately kind of a loner.)