The Gift of My Father

When I was a small boy, around the age of eight or so, my grandfather presented me with a gift. It was a place that I was able to go when I needed an escape from the uphill struggle of my childhood; a place where I found serenity, peace and comfort. I was born in 1939, in the small town of Cherrywood Village, KY. My parents were young when they received the news that they were going to be having a son; me. This made my father, who was so much in love with my mother and the thought of becoming a first time dad, take on the responsibility of joining the military so that he could support us in the best way possible. My father, a 2nd US Infantry Division Soldier, had become one of the few good men to fight his family, his rights and his country. He was shipped off to war in November 1940, just before Thanksgiving, and little did we know, he wasn’t going to be returning.
My second birthday came and went in March of 1941, and my mother kept her high hopes that he would be coming home safely, and soon. It wasn’t until late December, that same year, that she received a phone call; the phone call that made our lonely lives, just a little bit harder. The death of my father effected many residents of Cherrywood. Everyone knows everyone in this small town. The entire town knew Wyatt James Harrington; my late father. My mother took his death hard, and for many years turned to alcohol for her support and guidance through life. During a visit from my grandfather one day, a conversation between both he and my mother took place, when it was stated that there was concern as to how the drinking may affect her ability to give me a structured schedule, which every little boy needed. My grandfather had never doubted the love that my mother had for me, but wanted to be assured that I was receiving the best childhood and upbringing. It was that same day that I was taken to my new home where my most memorable moments were made. Although I lived with my grandfather he made