OUR WWII STORY: A hero's jacket

My dad, Glenn Masek, was nearly 97 when he passed away in his sleep on a Friday the 13th in August. He was a great dad who lived an admirable life. He served as a wonderful role model in our family, and he earned the respect and love he received from his children. He was also a member of American Legion Post 1080 in Joliet, Ill.

My dad was also a World War II veteran, seeing action in Okinawa and surviving a shipboard kamikaze attack. In recent years, he proudly wore a black jacket that displayed a United States Army patch, an American flag and other military emblems. Worn with his WWII veteran cap, that jacket earned my dad a number of cups of free coffee and, occasionally, a complimentary meal from an appreciative restaurant proprietor in town.

After our dad died, my brothers and I were faced with the task of removing his possessions from his apartment. It was a sad responsibility, dismantling a man's life that way. We found second homes for most of the good stuff – family members claimed some, residents of his facility were given others, and either the Goodwill or the dumpster became the next stop for the rest.

We found places for everything but our dad's World War II jacket.

The jacket was now a family treasure, too important to donate but inappropriate for any of us to actually wear. After all, none of us were were World War II veterans, or veterans affiliated with any branch of the military. And we didn't want to misrepresent ourselves by wearing something none of us had earned the way our dad did.

So where should the jacket go? How do you respect an article of clothing with the dignity and recognition it deserves?

There was a Wall of Honor in the cafeteria of my dad's independent living facility that featured current residents who had served in various branches of the military during their lives. My dad's photo had been displayed there, showing his years of service from 1943-1946. I looked over the photos of those men and women – and found a 91-year-old man who had been in the Army from 1950-1953. It wasn't World War II, but it was close enough.

I approached the man during the next meal period and told him that my brothers and I would like to present him with our dad's jacket. I brought it down to show him. He was close to my dad's size, so it looked like the jacket would be a good fit in a number of ways.

When the man saw the jacket and reached out to accept it from me, we both felt strong waves of emotion. It was more than just a piece of clothing making this transition.

Giving it away was like I was saying goodbye to my dad all over again. And the man accepting it was quite aware that he was sharing the moment with me.

With a tear in his eye, the man said that he'd be honored to wear this jacket. With a lump in my throat, I said that I was happy to be passing it along to such a deserving recipient.

The man then said that his son was affiliated with the local VFW and that, when it was time for this jacket to move on to another home in the future, he would see that it was passed along to another worthy veteran –  and that efforts would be made to maintain that tradition going forward.

My brothers and I will carry happy memories of our dad with us for the rest of our lives. It's good to know that this more tangible aspect of our dad's life and service to his country will likely be passed on from veteran to veteran as the spirits of each former owner join forces to go along with it.

From those who served to those who served and into the indefinite future. It's a comforting scenario to envision – and it all started with my dad.