Yesterday my father passed away. He was a thrice-decorated combat veteran of WWII. He stormed the beach at Normandy and was scheduled to take part in the invasion of Japan until it was cancelled by the surrender following Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He was born in Rochester, New York, an American, the son of Scottish immigrants. He met my Scottish mother in the UK during the war, and they hit it off when they discovered that her parents had grown up in the same village as his. Following the war, he remained in the UK, married my mother, and settled down in the homelands.
In the 90s, my wife and I helped them relocate to Ft. Myers, Florida because he had always said he wanted to go somewhere where he could sit outside all day, all year, and soak up the sun. He spent the last two decades doing exactly that. He once chased a Florida alligator off of his back lawn on his John Deere riding mower waving his basket hilt claymore over his head and bellowing "Scots Wha' Hae" at the top of his lungs.
When he passed he was surrounded by friends and family. His death was peaceful and without trauma. In the last few years he had lost most of his hearing and sight and was ready to go.
He was 97.
Good bye, Dad, and try not to kick too many asses in Heaven before I get up there to guard your back.
