The lessons we learn in life

My father came to me in a dream last night.

He had apparently helped me get a job I think it was in a bank. At the end of the first day of work, I walked over to where he was sitting with a colleague. In my dream, their images were both somewhat vague and unfocused. I am not sure who she was but it was definitely my Dad that sat across from her. He was sitting up straight and he wore a suit and a hat; a fedora.

I remember thinking, it’s been eight hours since I started work that day, time to go home. I walked over near them to retrieve some unknown personal item that was on a shelf in the table that sat between them I told them I was leaving. Then, as I tend to do, I made a joke. “Are we really supposed to work this long every day?”

My father leaned into me and suddenly he was there. He was no longer vague or unfocused. He was real. It was the face I knew so well even though I have not seen it in a dozen years. And it was no longer a dream. He was alive and he was right there. His facial features were crisp and clear. I could see the small capillaries in the skin on his face. I saw his teeth which had been discolored with age. I could smell his breath. I recognized the smell. It wasn’t a bad smell. It wasn’t a fresh smell. There was the intensity on his face that I also know so well. He was angry. He was embarrassed. He was disappointed.

He said “Damn it Chris! There are people working here!” I could literally feel a mixture of anger and embarrassment in his voice. “You need to sell something!” Then his features softened a bit and in his eyes, I could see compassion and love. “I love you and I am worried about you.”

And then he was gone.

Again.

His message to me was so clear. Get off your ass and stop whining about things you cannot control. Be thankful for what you have. You are lucky to have it. Things could be a lot worse.

I could feel his love and concern for me. I could feel how important it was to him for me to always do the right thing.

And I could feel his disappointment in me.

Again.


Dad’s older brother, Herbert, enlisted in the US Navy in March of 1941. He lied about his age. He would not turn 18 until October of that year but for some unknown reason, he couldn’t wait. We were at war and I imagine he felt compelled to join the fight.

In late July or early August of the following year, Herbert came home to Toledo to visit his family. His younger brother, Bud, my Dad would have been there to greet him. I imagine how proud he was of his older brother, Seaman First Class Monnett. They were still using the unique spelling of our family name, without the “e” on the end as the result of some unknown fallout between my grandfather and his siblings.

Herbert was out defending the country, fighting Nazis. I don’t know if the purpose of Herbert’s visit was a send-off for my father, who had just enlisted in the Navy as well,  or if the visit was the catalyst for my father’s decision to enlist. Either way, like his older brother, Dad lied about his age and enlisted in the US Navy on August 18th, 1941, seven months before his 18th birthday.

Dad was a patriotic man and I always knew him to have a strong sense of duty. The Japanese had just attacked Pearl Harbor in December and the pull to join his brother in the fight must have been tremendous.

Shortly after Herbert’s visit, Dad was shipped off to boot camp at the Naval Training Center in Great Lakes Illinois. He could not have been there more than a few days when;[ his father received the following telegram:

“WASHINGTON DC AUG 25 1046P
ALFRED ALEXANDER MONNETT

1105 MIAMI ST (TOLEDO OHIO)

THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON HERBERT ROLLAND MONNETT SEAMAN FIRST CLASS US NAVY IS MISSING IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY THE DEPARTMENT APPRECIATES YOUR  GREAT ANXIETY BUT DETAILS NOT NOW AVAILABLE AND DELAY IN RECEIPT THEREOF MUST NECESSARILY BE EXPECTED TO PREVENT POSSIBLE AID TO OUR ENEMIES PLEASE DO NOT DIVULGE THE NAME OF HIS SHIP OR STATION
REAR ADMIRAL RANDALL JACOBS CHIEF OF NAVAL PERSONNEL

Herbert’s ship, the Destroyer USS Ingram, had been operating in the North Atlantic off the coast of Canada. They were chasing a German submarine that was believed to be in the area. It was foggy and they collided with an oil tanker, almost five times the size. The collision set off the depth charges on the back of the ship. It sank in 25 seconds. Only 11 of the crew of 175 survived. Herbert was not one of them.

I don’t know how my father felt when he heard the news. I can only imagine. Over the years he recounted the story about received news of his brother’s death while he was in boot camp many times but in all the times he told that story, I don’t recall him once talking about how he felt. About how Herbert’s death impacted his family. Whether he was suddenly scared to go to war or did it strengthen his resolve. Herbert had been killed in a freak accident. He had not died at the hands of our enemies.

We never discussed any of that. Worst of all I don’t have a single recollection of me asking him.

We didn’t talk about feelings; at least not with Dad.

On the 20th of August 1971 my grandfather, Alfred Alexander Monnette died suddenly. My dad went to Michigan for the funeral I don’t think my mother joined him nor did my brother or I. The stated reason was probably that we had school or it was too expensive for us all to go. In hindsight, my guess is that it would be an emotional event and we don’t talk about emotions. At least not with Dad.

Following his death, my grandmother, Edith Perkins, came to live with us in Yorktown, Virginia. She was 76 years old and was apparently suffering from some form of dementia. I barely remember her. She was there for such a short period of time. As I recall the story, she started saying to my father things such as “Bud, who is this strange woman in the house?” referring to my mother. Before I knew it she as gone. Moved to a nursing home somewhere in Newport News.  If we visited her, I have not a single memory of it. I was 12.

Years passed without a single memory or mention of my grandmother. My parents didn’t talk about her around me and I never asked. I am my father's son after all

More than a decade passed, maybe two before I finally asked my mother, I couldn’t ask Dad, “What happened to grandma?” “She passed away several years ago.” “What happened?” I asked. “Oh dear, she was old.”

In fact, she was 88.  She died on August 1, 1983.  I was 24. In all that time there was never a mention of it or if there was I have not a single memory. I know I did not attend a memorial of any kind. As with her husband, my grandfather, I do not know if she is buried or if she was cremated. I imagine they were both cremated. The cost of a burial isn’t something that Dad would have wanted to spend. I have no idea what became of their ashes.

Emotions are not something that my father was comfortable with and especially not painful ones. A lesson I learned well from him.

But as with anything, you can change, and as I would learn the hard way much later in life, nothing provides more leverage for change than pain.