It's Grandpa's day too and they have better stories

Father’s Day is kind of weird for me.

This isn’t where I tell you a heartbreaking/heartwarming/heartsomething story that makes you cry and say to yourself “No wonder that poor boy grew up to be such an attention-seeking addict lone wolf brilliant and mysterious writer type. He needs me to find his address and bring him a pot of spaghetti and meat sauce and (if I’m a woman) hug him, especially if I’m attractive, a good conversationalist, and single.”

That sauce could sure use some warm sourdough bread too, if you can manage it.

But if it’ll convert some of you to becoming paid subscribers … man, I had it tough when I was a kid …

My grandfather was usually my Father’s Day focus growing up, since he was the man of the house (I was the boy of the house and in between were four strong-willed female people of the house).

My grandpa was a Pacific Ocean island-hopping World War II veteran and the main source of my lifelong fascination with that era. Though my grandmother probably provided me more actual facts about the war.

Like many veterans who saw war’s dehumanizing ugliness - and he really did, I discovered as an adult - my grandpa sat me down and solemnly explained parts of the war he thought I’d understand with just enough loving guidance, patience, and context. Like the time he dropped that atom bomb on Japan.

To be fair, he swore he just dropped the one.

I went to school and shared that with the whole class, which I’m pretty sure he enjoyed hearing later.

He told my cousin he met our grandmother when a Japanese Zero shot his plane down over the jungle and, since our grandmother was a nurse (she wasn’t), she came dashing through the tropical underbrush to save his life.

Dropping bombs and crashing planes in dogfights might seem strange for a Navy airplane mechanic. But he obviously was a man of many talents (he actually was, and there are plenty of expensive custom homes, and even a few churches, he designed and built around the Bay Area that prove it).

He also told me the scar on his side was from ruthless hand-to-hand bayonet combat with a Japanese soldier. It wasn’t a complete lie; he’d really been stabbed … by his sister with a pair of scissors when he was teasing her.

Mess with those Hicks women at your own risk, fellas.

The grandfolks met when the Navy sent him to train, by train, from Montana to Chicago after he enlisted at 22 years old. She worked at an auto plant converted to wartime production of bazookas or tanks or something equally cool, escorting civilians around the plant for tours or meetings or designing the aircraft carriers - I’m not sure. If she told me, she’d have to kill me, which would’ve raised awkward questions at school.

They met on a double date, doing a Harry Met Sally thing when deciding they liked each other instead of the dates they were with.

After an extended courtship of an entire two weeks - people were in a hurry: the world was ending - he shipped out. He saw action in the southwest Pacific in the Solomon Islands. He did talk a little about building airfields and seeing combat, leaving details out. When I got older, he also told me about some chilling things my grandmother later verified. It’s incredible to think what we put people through during wartime when they’re barely adults.

I rode my bike to the store one year - I was probably 9 or 10. They used to let us roam off leash in the wild during the ‘70s. I found him the book version of a war mini-series we just watched called Once an Eagle. I was very proud of myself. I’m not sure he read it, but that didn’t matter. He made the appropriate fuss.

The next year I was in my tree fort at the edge of our hillside lot, when I looked down and saw something down the hill near some bushes. I found a silver Seiko watch with one of those metal twisty bands that pinched your skin if you moved wrong. It was in perfect working shape. I couldn’t imagine what adult would be hanging around those bushes when they lost their watch. It might have been a Japanese intelligence agent, looking to settle a score with the war hero inside the house.

Anyway, guess what grandpa got for father’s day?

He wore it for the rest of his life - another 10 years, which obviously made it a great gift. And he sometimes told people how his grandson gave him the best watch he ever had on father’s day one year. Which always made me happy.

I forgot about it until a few months ago, when my mom found it in an old box and gave it back to me. It sits in a prominent spot on my desk and I might even wear it later today.

Don’t forget your grandfather today. Especially if you collect great stories.

My daughters have a dad to feed, so please consider paying $8 a month to read these columns. Find more nonsense in Tony’s book “Lying Drunk,” available from Barnes & Noble at https://bit.ly/46xoaJJ or Amazon at https://a.co/d/cYNCUPp).