My Dad
On Memorial Day 2021, my thoughts turned—as they often do—to my Dad.
Jack Richardson. Born on February 6, 1923, in Midway, Pennsylvania. Paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne, Battery B, during World War II, where he and other American soldiers fought in the Battle of the Bulge and helped to liberate Wobbelin Concentration Camp in 1945. He returned from the war to work briefly in a coal mine before packing up and moving to Warren, Ohio—bringing along his mother, since he was her primary source of support—to take a job at Republic Steel—52” Floor, Hot Strip Finishing.
Dad married my Mom—Dolores Richardson—in 1950 and stuck with her until 1986, when breast cancer complications took her life. He re-married in 1987 to the lady I affectionately called “Grandma Julie”— Julia Sanford Clark Richardson—until he died on January 27, 1997, in Warren (Champion), Ohio. Emphysema robbed him of a longer life, but what did he expect, after smoking longer than 50 years?. He was father to 3 daughters—Jackie, Pam, and Robin—and grandfather to 7.
Those are the basic “stats,” but they don’t begin to touch the person my Dad was. The way he loved to tease my Mom. The way he loved to dance. And fish. The way he flirted with waitresses. His warmth. His work ethic. The battles he waged with the cat my parents brought home for my sister on the day I was born (consoling her for my birth). Thomas and Dad had a mutual loathing—well deserved on both sides —that continued until Thomas died at the ripe old cat-age of 18.
There also were the dogs that Dad loved (mostly beagles with regal names: King, Duke, Prince—not to mention a female beagle named Flirp)--especially our penultimate dog—Josie (Josephine), a Cocker Spaniel/Poodle mix whom Dad always called “boy” (as in...Here, boy!) because there were just so many females in our house and (with just 1 bathroom in a 960-square-foot house on a slab) Dad clearly was outnumbered.
My Dad was handsome. He was a sharp-dressed man. He had integrity. He was a good husband, father, and friend. He was quiet but had a good sense of humor. He loved what he loved; he disliked what he saw as unfair or wrong or lazy. He was slow to anger and quick to forget.
To me, my Dad epitomizes the men and women we call “The Greatest Generation.”
Gosh. I miss my Dad. If I could spend an afternoon with just one person, he would be the one.
