My Father smelled like Old Spice and Pall Mall cigarettes….

My Pop was in Italy and North Africa in WWII. He had a picture of Benito Mussolini hanging dead, by his heels.

Pop’s younger Brother Franklin, died on the U.S.S. Franklin.

We had his picture on the wall in his Navy Uniform. Young, and vibrant, for eternity to witness.

He was not forgotten.

My Father, fought Fascists and Nazis. He was a solid Union man and brooked no bullshit from anyone who opposed better working conditions, wages and benefits.

I watched him go to work when he was sick.

I watched him go to work at different jobs, cooking ,delivering heating oil, shade tree mechanic, when there was strike at The Union Carbide ‘Electro-Met’ plant in Ohio, on the shores of Lake Erie.

He also served his duty on the Union picket line.

The term ‘Scab’ was anathema to my Pop.

He did what was needed. He did not talk. He just did. My Father is long dead.

Not to me.

One of my proudest moments was when he challenged a Southern bigot in the midst of our Southern Baptist Church Congregation.

The man’s name was, and I am not making this up, ’McCoy’ A full blooded ,red haired Virginian racist. I’m not talking about the closet racist we are see now. You know what I’m talking about. This man was the real deal. This moment in time became engraved on my mind.

Mr. McCoy, was offended because our Pastor assigned Usher duty to my best friend since Kindergarten, Ben. Roy was his name ,middle name Benjamin. We called him Ben. (He eventually was killed in Vietnam.)

He was a black.

So anyways, Mr. McCoy in his righteous, White Anglo Saxon, Christian anger announced ,”I will not be ushered by a Nigger.” Whoa…! As you may well expect, there was a moment of extremely uncomfortable, painful silence. I was 12 at the time, just a kid. This was Ohio. I grew up a ‘Yankee’. My Father was a Yankee/Union Man. My Great Grandpa and Great Uncles fought in the Civil war.

For the Union.

We were pretty sure about our stand.

My Pop was a cook with the Army. Many black men were also assigned to cook and kitchen duty.

Some of his best mates were black men, Jews, Catholics and others.

Diversity.

Now, when you are just a kid, none of this racist shit makes sense.

What did make sense and, made me very proud, was my Pop stood up and replaced Ben.

Ben sat down next to me.

My Father saw Mr. McCoy and his family to their assigned pew. He then came back and Ben continued to Usher.

My Father said only four words to that racist blowhard.

“You should be ashamed.”

That helped shape my future.

Ben is dead. My Father is dead. Mr. McCoy ,no doubt, is dead.

The lesson never died.

I still remember wanting to sit closer to my Father that Sunday.

He smelled like Pall Mall cigarettes and Old spice.

How close, to their Fathers, will the sons of racists want to sit ?