The sense of loss when my father passed away gripped at my insides and forever changed my world. It was easy to imagine that he would always be there, that he was somehow super human and would defy medical logic and live way beyond normal. However, his time came way too soon as it always does when one looses a parent.

My father was my friend and my buoy - the one soul who would listen to my idealistic ramblings with a calm patience and guide me through my oversights with artful sensitivity. He was quick with a witty remark, always had a wonderful story to tell, and could light up a room simply by walking into it. He had a commanding presence and looked a bit like "Mannix," the TV detective of the 70's. He was also a consummate ladies man with a compliment waiting up both sleeves that was always unique and genuine; a polished speaker with brains to back it up, he really seemed to have it all.

My father was quick to laugh from his heart, but there was also a sadness that pervaded him on occasion that I link to his time spent fighting for his country in the Korean War. I am sure he saw hell on the frozen North Korean landscape and would only speak briefly about his time as a Marine Sargent. If my brother and I pinned him down with enough questions about the various scars that he wore, he would tell us a watered down version of some event to satiate our inquisitiveness and then send us on our way. We never considered what inner wounds our prodding was pouring salt into - he was GI Joe to us and we didn't care.

In some ineffable communication, my father told us that his stories would need to stay under lock and key - maybe it was a glimmer of pain that showed in his eyes - and we soon understood not to ask anymore. In my later teens I got bold and queried again and was told of an event where his boot got partially shot off his foot and that the large scar on his shin was caused by a 40 caliber round. Apparently that wasn't enough and he also got hit with burning shrapnel in the forehead, which left a diagonal scar as a reminder and promptly knocked him unconscious. He later awoke strapped to the side of a helicopter a few hundred feet in the air, apparently saved by some unknown comrade. There was a notable anguish in his eyes when he recounted his story that seemed to say: this is all I can give you, please don't ask me again.

I only recall seeing the Purple Heart he received once and never knew what became of it. But after he had passed away my brother and I packed his belongings and there it was, hidden with some other military items including his discharge papers and the records of the various military campaigns that he was involved in. It almost seemed that these items were kept not out of pride of accomplishment, but to remind him that what had happened while he was in the war was ordered by his country and not out of any design of his own.

My father was a man of integrity and had a strength of character that I couldn't grasp when I was younger and still don't fully get as an adult. He was from another time that seemed to be stronger and braver - of a generation of men that the world will not see the likes of again.