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The day my dad came home

I remember that day so well. My mind travels back so comfortably and quickly.

I was running and yelling and thoroughly enjoying afternoon recess at St. Francis of Assisi Grade School on Market Street in the heart of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Our school was surrounded by endless tree-lined streets filled with row houses and town houses. It was late in the fall but the day was warm and sunny. I was enjoying playing with my old chums from last year's second grade. But now we were older and bigger third graders.

As usual, one of the nuns, Sisters of Mercy at our school, was dutifully scrutinizing our play from her vantage point atop the large cement stair case leading to the school's front door. She could gaze to her left and spy any boy violating one of the seemingly many playground rules which no doubt she memorized or maybe invented every day prior to the recess period. She seemed to know the rules so well. The watchful Sister could then glance to the right and watch the girls in their section of the playground -- a smaller area and usually much quieter than the boys' section.

In the middle of my chasing and yelling, my good friend, Joe Wambach, ran up to me said shouted in my ear, "Your dad is talking to Principal Sister Regina on the stairs." Of course, I knew Joe was wrong. "No, not possible," I told him. "My dad is in the Navy. In the war, the Korean War."

Joe was a little more emphatic.

"Your dad is talking to Sister Regina!"

Sometimes we want to believe something that we think couldn't possibly be true simply because we so want it to be true. So I could not ignore him. I ran over to the staircase. I was stunned. There was my dad in his Navy blues and white sailor hat talking to the principal. I ran up the stairs and hugged him. Big smiles. He reached down and hugged me and kissed me.

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Oh, yes, I was a happy recesser now! I couldn't believe the surprise. Sister Regina calmed me down by telling me to go get my brother, Mike. As usual, Mike (two years older and much bigger than I) had probably misbehaved again and was not allowed to enjoy recess. Instead he, along with the other fifth-grade troublemakers, was sequestered in one of the basement classrooms supervised very closely and, no doubt sternly by another Sister, probably Sister Clarice or (heaven forbid) Sister Terrance. I found him and ran into the classroom, excited, not caring about the standing rules. I breached school protocol as I rushed by the Sister at her desk and ran directly to my brother's desk blurting out the great news.

His reaction was the same as mine. Impossible. Dad is away at the war. He wouldn't believe me but the Sister told him he better go see.

We ran up the basement stairs with Mike easily outdistancing me. We hugged my dad, vying for his attention. What could be better than having your dad back? Well, it got better. Sister Regina told my dad to take Mike and me home. No more school for that day. Wow! Life could not possibly get any better. But it did.

Just two blocks up the street was Harris's drug store -- old fashioned with a long and fully stocked soda fountain. Behind the counter was a large counter to ceiling mirror with shelves and heavy dark wood framing. The menu listed a long and delicious array of ice cream sundaes. We walked to the store holding my dad's hands and jabbering all the while, talking over each other. The words didn't matter as long as they came out. The excitement was too great. Then, delicious sundaes.

We sat, one on each side of my dad, trying to down large scoops of ice cream while my dad talked to the druggist behind the counter. Mike and I took turns wearing my dad's hat, snatching it off each other's heads. Looking back on that scene now I realize that it must have looked just like a Norman Rockwell painting. We walked home. In my young mind I made a mature decision that day. I knew that no matter what else I did in life, I would some day be in the military just like my dad. And I was, for almost 30 years. And my brother was. And my brother's son was in his turn. And my son is now as I write.

So, when I see news stories of dads coming home to kids, I watch and smile. I think yes, I know how those smiling children feel. And then my mind travels back again.

Col. Francis Anthony Gallela, U.S. Air Force Reserve, ret., served in the U.S. Air Force and the Alaska Air National Guard. He is a business and economic consultant in Anchorage. His father, Michael Gallela, served his country in uniform, then worked for the Navy as a civilian. Francis Gallela writes, "He did all this with pride."

The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary(at)alaskadispatch.com

Francis Gallela

Col. Francis Gallela, USAF, Alaska Air National Guard (ret.), is a financial consultant. He lives in Anchorage.

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