My awareness of existence starts at this point: I am wrapped in a blanket, staring up at infinite stars in the cold night sky. I am safely tucked in my father’s arm, rhythmically rocked by his walking. He took my sister and I, each in an arm, for long night walks in the hills outside Pittsburgh. it is 1964. I am 18 months old. Five decades later, this memory is as clear as if it happened last night. I have never looked into the heavens at night and failed to think of it. This was, and remains, my welcome to existence.
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Above, My Father’s 1949 copy of “Lucky Bag” the yearbook of the United States Naval Academy. The blanket pictured was issued to Dad when he arrived at Annapolis in 1945. The number 934 was his laundry number at the Academy. This is the same wool blanket which my father wrapped me in, while he carried me in his arms. The blanket was here in the family home on 2/12 when Dad, surrounded by family, quietly passed from this existence.
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On Friday night the family privately bade him farewell, my mother tucked a small valentines day card in the pocket of his dress uniform. Saturday morning, a service and words of remembrance were held at the Presbyterian Church in Summit New Jersey. His flag draped casket was at the foot of the altar. It struck me as a very small vessel for such a large life.
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At the conclusion, my brother, his sons, our cousin, our brother in law and myself carried the casket out the aisle, my mother and sisters following. It was life in reverse, as my father had walked each of my sisters down this same aisle on their wedding days. Outside, it was unseasonably warm and beautiful. I laid my hand on the casket and softly said “Goodbye Dad”.
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It was somber, but not sorrowful, as the latter requires an element of unfairness that leaves you asking why or wondering what might have been done. My fathers life had neither of those elements. He accomplished nearly everything we wanted to, and did it on his own terms, all the way to the last page. In the spring he will be laid to rest at Arlington National Cemetery. It was a life well lived with nothing to be sorry about.
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The past week had the strange sensation of the timeline of life coming to a smooth stop. I can still remember all the personal things I planned to do, but they all seem far away and unimportant right now. I have long understood that much of my life was conducted in hope that it would register on scale of value my father and his generation knew. I may have made some low marks on the scale, but I feel the contest is over and the score can no longer be improved. The benevolent, but honest umpire has left the arena. Tonight, the only thing that seems more certain than before is this: At some long future date, I wish to have my last cognizant moment of existence while I am wrapped in a gray wool blanket that says “W. E. WYNNE. 934”
