thedrifter
03-19-06, 07:55 AM
My daddy wore a uniform
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Columbus Dispatch
My name is Harrison Ivy, and my daddy died in the war.
It made me sad. That’s what I tell people.
It made me mad, too. That’s what I don’t tell people.
But my mom, Lee Ann, sees it. She sees it when I disobey her too often, when I argue too much, when I call people ugly names. She knows it by the things I say, like, ‘‘We want their heads to blow off! The bad guys’ heads."
I am only 5 years old, but I’m proud of my dad, Kendall Ivy II. He was not a soldier; he was a Marine. I correct my kindergarten teacher when she says we do things to honor soldiers. ‘‘And Marines," I remind her.
I beg Mom to let me wear my ‘‘dress blues," like Dad’s. I wore them with all 17 of Dad’s medals and ribbons when I stood in his place at my cousin’s wedding. I cry when Mom tells me I can’t wear them for play.
When I see troops on TV, I ask if they are talking about Dad, or about Iraq. I want to watch it all, but Mom won’t let me.
I have energy, spirit, a short temper and a big smile. I love sports. I am a lot like Daddy, my family says.
People say he is a hero.
When I grow up, I want to be a Marine. Or go to college and play football.
Caleb, my older brother, is 7. We do everything together, like playing Marines outside and sleeping in the same bed. He loved Dad a lot, and Mom says Caleb was mad when Dad left for Iraq.
Caleb hardly talks about him now, not even to the school counselor who talks to us about Dad.
‘‘No can do," he says.
Mom says we’ll talk to other counselors.
Caleb isn’t doing so well in school. Mom tries real hard to help. She taped homework charts to the kitchen wall and puts up stickers when we get our work done. But no matter what she tries, she says, he doesn’t seem to care about school.
Caleb looks like Dad, and he likes it when people tell him that, Mom says.
One night when he was sleeping, Caleb says, he saw Dad. Mom told him that next time, he should try to talk to him.
Caleb wants to be a Marine someday, too.
Daddy loved Caleb and me. We watched movies and played kickball, tractor and Star Wars. I put a light saber in his casket for him to keep forever. Dad was good at sports. He even got asked in high school to play pro baseball farm team and played almost-pro football in Jacksonville, so he taught us a lot about that stuff. He wrestled with us, too.
I think that, in heaven, he gets to race cars and play football.
When I see sports on TV, I think of my dad, and I talk about the teams he liked. The Bengals were his favorite.
Dad didn’t want a girl, until Reagan came. He was the one who held her when she cried. Mom worked nights as a nurse in the hospital emergency room, so Dad and the three of us kids slept together on the living-room floor. He didn’t like being apart from Reagan.
She was 6 months old when he left and is a year-and-a-half now. She’s just learning to talk. She doesn’t understand that Dad died, Mom says.
Reagan climbs on the piano and grabs Dad’s picture with her baby fingers. ‘‘Da-da!" she says. When Mom was looking through old photos and dropped the one taken the last day we saw Dad, Reagan stood above it and smiled. ‘‘Da-da! Da-da!" she said. Then, she picked it up and kissed his face.
Sometimes I tease her. Other times, when she cries, I tickle her hand and try to make her stop.
Gabriel, my youngest brother, was still in Mom’s tummy when Daddy died. He is only 5 months old.
Even though Dad never met him, Mom says he knew Gabriel was a boy because she was so sick before Dad left. She was throwing up the morning she said goodbye.
Mom says Dad picked out Gabe’s name because it’s the name of Mel Gibson’s son in The Patriot, and the archangel.
Our house in Camp Lejeune, N.C., had three bedrooms, and we lived around other kids whose parents are in the Marines.
But Dad told Mom that if anything happened to him, he wanted us to move back to Galion, where they grew up. So we did. Now, Dad’s parents and brothers and sisters help take care of us.
Mom is building her and Dad’s dream house. She’s paying for some of it with money she got from the government when Dad died. It will have five bedrooms, a big porch and a deck.
On Mother’s Day last year, three days before Dad died, Mom was crying when she wrote an e-mail to Dad. Caleb and I were getting in trouble, Reagan had bronchitis and a double ear infection, and there was too long of a wait to eat lunch at the nice restaurant. Then, when we sat down to eat at Wendy’s, Reagan dumped a drink on Mom’s lap.
So Dad told Mom to buy an outside table, where they could drink coffee together and talk on the porch when he came home.
She bought the table, but he’ll never sit there.
Mom will still put it on the deck.
They were boyfriend and girlfriend in high school, so it’s real hard for her to be without him after so long.
Mom is very sad, but I’ve only seen her cry a little.
She’s 28, but I’m too small to really understand how young she is to have four kids.
And there’s other stuff I’ll hear about when I’m older.
Like sometimes, when Mom is all by herself, surrounded by piles of laundry downstairs, she talks to Dad and asks him why he left her alone with four little kids.
‘‘You owe me so big," she’ll look up and say.
Like some nights, when we are sleeping, she walks downstairs, puts on old CDs that remind her of Dad, cleans the kitchen and cries.
Like on certain days, she wonders how she’ll be able to do this for so many more years. Dad’s biggest fear, she says, wasn’t dying; it was having someone else raise his kids.
I do know this: After Dad died, ‘‘Uncle Sean," Dad’s good friend and another Marine, came to visit. Mom was happy that at least we would have him to share stories about Dad as we get older. He could wrestle with us like Dad did.
But months later, Uncle Sean’s wife called and said he was killed in the war, too.
Now, I think Daddy and Uncle Sean get to play football together in heaven.
Even though Dad isn’t alive, we have lots of things to remind us of him.
There’s a big, red Marines blanket on the back of the couch. There are pictures of Dad above the TV, on the piano, in albums and boxes. In the new house, Dad will get a room. Mom is framing a poster that was hanging in a gym for Marines in Iraq named after Dad. She’s having his uniform put in a glass box on the wall.
In front of the house, we’ll fly a Marine Corps flag. Mom still supports the war. Dad really believed in what he was fighting for.
Mom is having Dad’s old clothes made into five quilts, one for each of us kids and her.
Caleb was mad that Mom sold Dad’s Ford truck. He wanted her to save it for us to drive when we get older. She said it wouldn’t be any good by then, and that we needed more room for now. But she bought another Ford truck, just bigger. Dad was a Ford guy, she says. He wanted to teach history or work on cars. Now, Dad won’t ever rebuild a 1960s Mustang for Mom, like he promised. They won’t get to see any NASCAR races this summer, but she’ll take Caleb and me. And she’ll order dress blues for Gabe, so we can have a fancy picture together that she’ll put with a picture of Dad, since Gabe doesn’t have any pictures with him. Mom wears Dad’s plain gold wedding ring on her left hand. She put her diamond away so that someday, when Reagan wants to get married, she can wear the diamond that Dad picked out for Mom. She says that whichever boy gets married first can take Dad’s gold ring from her hand. Mom visits Daddy’s grave about once a week. Sometimes, I ask to go along. My grandpa says I’m mischievous. He’s right. One day after Mom scolded me a few times, I cut off Reagan’s long blond hair. Mom was really, really mad. It was cut down to her skin in some parts. Later, I ran around the beauty shop while a nice woman fixed Reagan’s hair for free. Then, I didn’t want to wear my coat in the car. But when Mom put in a CD and played the song ’Til I See You Again, I got quiet. Mom was singing this song at my Dad’s funeral. I smiled, and started singing softly. I am opening the door I will let this moment in Your love will find me here ’Til I see you again. We were in the driveway when the song ended. I dove into the front seat toward the CD player. ‘‘Play that song again," I said. ‘‘It’s really good, Mommy." But Mom turned off the car, and the music stopped. I wished she would have let us listen longer. ‘‘I love that song," I told her. I stopped for a second, then jumped out of the truck and ran toward the road while Mom yelled for me to stop. My name is Harrison Ivy, and I miss my dad.
keckert@dispatch.com
A Future Marine in the making ;)
Ellie
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Columbus Dispatch
My name is Harrison Ivy, and my daddy died in the war.
It made me sad. That’s what I tell people.
It made me mad, too. That’s what I don’t tell people.
But my mom, Lee Ann, sees it. She sees it when I disobey her too often, when I argue too much, when I call people ugly names. She knows it by the things I say, like, ‘‘We want their heads to blow off! The bad guys’ heads."
I am only 5 years old, but I’m proud of my dad, Kendall Ivy II. He was not a soldier; he was a Marine. I correct my kindergarten teacher when she says we do things to honor soldiers. ‘‘And Marines," I remind her.
I beg Mom to let me wear my ‘‘dress blues," like Dad’s. I wore them with all 17 of Dad’s medals and ribbons when I stood in his place at my cousin’s wedding. I cry when Mom tells me I can’t wear them for play.
When I see troops on TV, I ask if they are talking about Dad, or about Iraq. I want to watch it all, but Mom won’t let me.
I have energy, spirit, a short temper and a big smile. I love sports. I am a lot like Daddy, my family says.
People say he is a hero.
When I grow up, I want to be a Marine. Or go to college and play football.
Caleb, my older brother, is 7. We do everything together, like playing Marines outside and sleeping in the same bed. He loved Dad a lot, and Mom says Caleb was mad when Dad left for Iraq.
Caleb hardly talks about him now, not even to the school counselor who talks to us about Dad.
‘‘No can do," he says.
Mom says we’ll talk to other counselors.
Caleb isn’t doing so well in school. Mom tries real hard to help. She taped homework charts to the kitchen wall and puts up stickers when we get our work done. But no matter what she tries, she says, he doesn’t seem to care about school.
Caleb looks like Dad, and he likes it when people tell him that, Mom says.
One night when he was sleeping, Caleb says, he saw Dad. Mom told him that next time, he should try to talk to him.
Caleb wants to be a Marine someday, too.
Daddy loved Caleb and me. We watched movies and played kickball, tractor and Star Wars. I put a light saber in his casket for him to keep forever. Dad was good at sports. He even got asked in high school to play pro baseball farm team and played almost-pro football in Jacksonville, so he taught us a lot about that stuff. He wrestled with us, too.
I think that, in heaven, he gets to race cars and play football.
When I see sports on TV, I think of my dad, and I talk about the teams he liked. The Bengals were his favorite.
Dad didn’t want a girl, until Reagan came. He was the one who held her when she cried. Mom worked nights as a nurse in the hospital emergency room, so Dad and the three of us kids slept together on the living-room floor. He didn’t like being apart from Reagan.
She was 6 months old when he left and is a year-and-a-half now. She’s just learning to talk. She doesn’t understand that Dad died, Mom says.
Reagan climbs on the piano and grabs Dad’s picture with her baby fingers. ‘‘Da-da!" she says. When Mom was looking through old photos and dropped the one taken the last day we saw Dad, Reagan stood above it and smiled. ‘‘Da-da! Da-da!" she said. Then, she picked it up and kissed his face.
Sometimes I tease her. Other times, when she cries, I tickle her hand and try to make her stop.
Gabriel, my youngest brother, was still in Mom’s tummy when Daddy died. He is only 5 months old.
Even though Dad never met him, Mom says he knew Gabriel was a boy because she was so sick before Dad left. She was throwing up the morning she said goodbye.
Mom says Dad picked out Gabe’s name because it’s the name of Mel Gibson’s son in The Patriot, and the archangel.
Our house in Camp Lejeune, N.C., had three bedrooms, and we lived around other kids whose parents are in the Marines.
But Dad told Mom that if anything happened to him, he wanted us to move back to Galion, where they grew up. So we did. Now, Dad’s parents and brothers and sisters help take care of us.
Mom is building her and Dad’s dream house. She’s paying for some of it with money she got from the government when Dad died. It will have five bedrooms, a big porch and a deck.
On Mother’s Day last year, three days before Dad died, Mom was crying when she wrote an e-mail to Dad. Caleb and I were getting in trouble, Reagan had bronchitis and a double ear infection, and there was too long of a wait to eat lunch at the nice restaurant. Then, when we sat down to eat at Wendy’s, Reagan dumped a drink on Mom’s lap.
So Dad told Mom to buy an outside table, where they could drink coffee together and talk on the porch when he came home.
She bought the table, but he’ll never sit there.
Mom will still put it on the deck.
They were boyfriend and girlfriend in high school, so it’s real hard for her to be without him after so long.
Mom is very sad, but I’ve only seen her cry a little.
She’s 28, but I’m too small to really understand how young she is to have four kids.
And there’s other stuff I’ll hear about when I’m older.
Like sometimes, when Mom is all by herself, surrounded by piles of laundry downstairs, she talks to Dad and asks him why he left her alone with four little kids.
‘‘You owe me so big," she’ll look up and say.
Like some nights, when we are sleeping, she walks downstairs, puts on old CDs that remind her of Dad, cleans the kitchen and cries.
Like on certain days, she wonders how she’ll be able to do this for so many more years. Dad’s biggest fear, she says, wasn’t dying; it was having someone else raise his kids.
I do know this: After Dad died, ‘‘Uncle Sean," Dad’s good friend and another Marine, came to visit. Mom was happy that at least we would have him to share stories about Dad as we get older. He could wrestle with us like Dad did.
But months later, Uncle Sean’s wife called and said he was killed in the war, too.
Now, I think Daddy and Uncle Sean get to play football together in heaven.
Even though Dad isn’t alive, we have lots of things to remind us of him.
There’s a big, red Marines blanket on the back of the couch. There are pictures of Dad above the TV, on the piano, in albums and boxes. In the new house, Dad will get a room. Mom is framing a poster that was hanging in a gym for Marines in Iraq named after Dad. She’s having his uniform put in a glass box on the wall.
In front of the house, we’ll fly a Marine Corps flag. Mom still supports the war. Dad really believed in what he was fighting for.
Mom is having Dad’s old clothes made into five quilts, one for each of us kids and her.
Caleb was mad that Mom sold Dad’s Ford truck. He wanted her to save it for us to drive when we get older. She said it wouldn’t be any good by then, and that we needed more room for now. But she bought another Ford truck, just bigger. Dad was a Ford guy, she says. He wanted to teach history or work on cars. Now, Dad won’t ever rebuild a 1960s Mustang for Mom, like he promised. They won’t get to see any NASCAR races this summer, but she’ll take Caleb and me. And she’ll order dress blues for Gabe, so we can have a fancy picture together that she’ll put with a picture of Dad, since Gabe doesn’t have any pictures with him. Mom wears Dad’s plain gold wedding ring on her left hand. She put her diamond away so that someday, when Reagan wants to get married, she can wear the diamond that Dad picked out for Mom. She says that whichever boy gets married first can take Dad’s gold ring from her hand. Mom visits Daddy’s grave about once a week. Sometimes, I ask to go along. My grandpa says I’m mischievous. He’s right. One day after Mom scolded me a few times, I cut off Reagan’s long blond hair. Mom was really, really mad. It was cut down to her skin in some parts. Later, I ran around the beauty shop while a nice woman fixed Reagan’s hair for free. Then, I didn’t want to wear my coat in the car. But when Mom put in a CD and played the song ’Til I See You Again, I got quiet. Mom was singing this song at my Dad’s funeral. I smiled, and started singing softly. I am opening the door I will let this moment in Your love will find me here ’Til I see you again. We were in the driveway when the song ended. I dove into the front seat toward the CD player. ‘‘Play that song again," I said. ‘‘It’s really good, Mommy." But Mom turned off the car, and the music stopped. I wished she would have let us listen longer. ‘‘I love that song," I told her. I stopped for a second, then jumped out of the truck and ran toward the road while Mom yelled for me to stop. My name is Harrison Ivy, and I miss my dad.
keckert@dispatch.com
A Future Marine in the making ;)
Ellie