Sunday, June 27, 2010

Hendrik S. Bollerud: A Good Soldier

One of my earliest memories of my father is him getting up every morning to "spit shine" his boots. He was a miltary man. The Army was his career, he chose it. Growing up, I never thought that much about him being an Army guy because every kid I knew had an army guy for a dad.

All I knew about what my Dad did was that he was a "Mess Sgt" and I only knew that because sometimes he would bring home huge boxes of variety pack cereal--Grape Nuts were my favorite.

When I was about eight or so my Dad traded his white hat for a "Smokey The Bear" hat, he became a Drill Instructor. I only found out recently just how difficult is to get into that training and pass it.

My Dad took that position very seriously. My Mom told me a story that once they were in an airport and Dad saw a soldier in uniform but he was a mess: shirt out, collar unbuttoned, tie askew.

Now, this man wasn't in Dad's unit and they were on civilian ground but it didn't matter to Dad. He walked right up to that soldier and told him to tuck in his shirt, button that collar and generally "police yourself up."

My Mom said that poor soldier turned scarlet, moved quickly to comply, all the while mumbling, "Yes, Drill Sgt. Yes, Sir." Now, it was not my Dad's nature to be an ass and abuse his rank, he just wanted this soldier know that the unform was just as important as the person wearing it.

After putting in his twenty years in the Army, my Dad kinda forgot what he was good at and became a salesman. Ten years, many jobs, and many 12 Steps later, he remembered again. He became a classroom nstructor at Sears Driving School. Nothing to sneeze to some but how many instructors get standing ovation? Dad did--he was just that good.

So life was good, Dad was happy, the future looked bright but then a heart attack came and the doctor told my Dad the reason why the wiggling in his toe wouldn't stop was because he had Parkinson's Disease. Probably because of his exposure to Agent Orange during his year in Vietnam.

"Luck of the draw," was all Dad said. I believe it was his military training, his A.A. and my Mom being a hard ass at making sure he got the best medical care that Dad lived 23 years with the disease.

I really didn't understand what my Dad's miltary career meant to him or to our government until Dad's funeral--it was a miltary funeral with full honors at Ft. Sam Houston. Now, he never served there but all my Mom had to do was make a phone call and as we sat grave side, the troops arrived.

All in their finest dress blues; the Flag-folding soldiers, the soldiers who saluted my Father with 21 rounds, the lone soldier in dress greens who represented my Father's service in Viet Nam and of course the soldier who played Taps so mournfully, I burst into tears.

I have to admit, I didn't cry because I missed my Dad, I cried because at that moment, I felt that maybe my Dad didn't have the life he wanted. But I was wrong, my father was proud to be a military man. It taught him well.

So eventhough, technically, Memorial Day is to honor soldiers who have fallen in war, I honor my Father for fighting his own private war with alcholism and then Parkinson's. Even after he couldn't move, speak, or swallow--he took the orders fate delivered him, marched on as best he could until the very end because that's what a good soldier does.

Hendrik S. Bollerud Born: November 21, 1933 Died: January 26, 2009

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