I was born on the southside of Brooklyn a few years after the second world war. My father was stationed in Nebraska during World War II and often said, “I killed more German and Japanese soldiers with my typewriter than any other guy in the Army Air Corp.” Still in single digits, I thought Dad went around smashing his Underwood over enemy combatants’ heads, or dropped his typewriter from a B17 into densely populated areas of Berlin and Tokyo. Although my father was never in the thick of it, he still suffered from PTSD, or shell shock as the medicos called the disorder in the 1940s. Why he exhibited symptoms of the dread condition is a mystery; nonetheless, after his stint in the armed forces, Dad had more issues than Readers Digest. Of course, cohabitating with my mother, the Sicilian whack-a-do from Crazy Town, may have been a contributing factor regarding his facial tics and occasional melt downs; events that punctuated a broad-spectrum of clumsy parenting. Just the same, I never doubted his love. A few years back, the veteran shuffled off this mortal coil in his 96th year. In his absence, I thank my father and his heroic band of brothers who fought and died for their country.