When I was old enough to ride my bike across town, I often visited the cemetery where my father was buried. He died of Hodgkin’s disease when I was 3. The cemetery was on the northwest edge of town, the opposite side from where we lived in the little brick house on the double corner lot on Cherry Street. Later, when I had my driver’s license, I would drive out to the cemetery. Mom put a planter beside Dad’s headstone and planted the same thing in it every spring—red geraniums and a spiky, tall, grass-like plant in the middle. When I got there, I would deadhead the spent geranium flowers like I had seen her do when we visited together. Once there, I would stand in front of my father’s grave, willing myself to feel something and pleading with him to communicate his love for me from beyond the grave. No one knew I did this. My mother and my brother almost never talked about my dad, so I hung onto every little thing they told me. Showing emotion in my family wasn’t encouraged, which I always chalked up to German (Mom’s side) and British (Dad’s side) stoicism. I desperately wanted to know about him, but I was afraid to ask questions for fear I would be flatly shut down. The thought of that felt unbearable.

I have a few photos of him. There is one where he is sitting in a chair, taken from the side. I am a baby, maybe 6 months old. I am sitting up, balanced on one of his hands as he holds me up in front of him. We both have smiles on our faces. I can see the muscles in his arms. He is strong. He was a good man. He loved me. This is what I see in this photo. I have looked at that photo over and over throughout the years. It is evidence of our bond—father and daughter, I tell myself.

As a child and into my teenage years, I wanted to feel something for him. I longed for a connection. I secretly hoped for a sign or a visit from beyond the grave. I thought I should feel affection, even love, but all I felt was emptiness. So I found myself regularly visiting the only earthly place where any part of him resided—the gravesite that held his bones. All I felt was a void. There was never any ghostly visit or any unexplainable phenomenon, not even in my dreams, despite my pleas and my prayers.

My mom and dad were in high school when WWII broke out. My mom described those years as “not much fun,” with all the boys going “off to war as soon as they graduated.” My dad, Earl, lied about his age and enlisted in the Army when he was just 17. My mom told me they met after the war and that he said he would not live a long life because of everything he experienced. He fought in the Pacific Theater and contracted malaria while there. He had been on many islands in the Pacific and saw horrific things. With the exception of a couple other little snippets, that was the extent of what she told me about him. My parents were almost 40 years old when I was born. I was told I was a surprise.

A few years ago, my brother received a letter from the Veterans Administration explaining that they had discovered many war medals that were never handed out to the veterans who earned them. They were holding a ceremony in my hometown, as they were doing in towns and cities across the country, to give out the medals to either the veterans or, in most cases, their surviving families. They had a Bronze Star for my father, Earl. My brother couldn’t make it so I decided to go to the ceremony.

My husband and I drove three hours to my hometown of Wauseon, Ohio, to accept the medal on behalf of my dad. Wauseon is situated in the very northwest corner of the state. Northwest Ohio is dotted with small towns surrounded by farmland that, in the summer, is planted with acres of corn and soybeans. The land is flat, the soil rich, owing to the fact that the area was once part of the Great Black Swamp. I always thought the openness and flatness were beautiful, but I never had words for it until I saw the movie “The Bridges of Madison County,” where the character played by Clint Eastwood describes the Iowa countryside as an “austere beauty.” What I didn’t miss were the gray skies and the wind that swept through the countryside from November 1 through the end of March every year, along with the snow and bitter cold temperatures in winter. I’ve forgotten exactly what time of year the ceremony was held. It could have been either autumn or spring, because it was blustery, cold, and raining sideways when we drove into town as night was falling.

The ceremony was held in the Catholic church’s large fellowship hall, and before it began, we were treated to a hearty dinner served by volunteers from town. The room was jam-packed with people. I searched for familiar faces; I found none. The first few years after I left for college, coming home meant constantly running into people I knew wherever I went. But by the time of the medal ceremony, I was in my mid-50s, and I hadn’t been back for several years - the last time was about 10 years before that, when my mom passed away.

When dinner was over, they announced they would be calling us up to the stage to accept the medals. They explained that they no longer had information about what the veterans did to earn them, so that history was lost. We lined up to the right of the stage, and as my father’s name was called and I walked across the room, I felt like a little girl again. It was strange. I felt very vulnerable. It was such a great honor to accept the medal for my dad. I felt connected to him, and it felt good to do something for him. I thought I had come full circle. I didn’t know there was so much more to come.