During Dad's late-life presidential campaign, I gave him my painting of Geronimo for his birthday The discussion I expected never happened. He understood exactly why. Beaming, he centered it on the fireplace mantle. He beheld his own reflection: a furious, constant battle against corruption.
The Geronimo aspect was not always there. During rigorous training for Army Air Force Cadets during WWII, such an attitude would have washed him out. Only the best of recruits became pilots. No insubordination allowed.
A post-mortem conversation with Dad's older brother described a different man than I knew all my life. My father came back from war with brain damage - something I would have to wait until last year to understand when VA files "lost in the fire of 1973" finally turned up in response to my FOIA requests. Although my father manifested consummate intelligence, his brother said he was a mere shadow of the man he had been. The wit, the humor, the deft turn of metaphor. Also the more temperate disposition. A highly charismatic man, he mastered every art he touched - aviation, architecture, carpentry, described by others as a mechanical genius, farming, even once having a Harley Davidson. He continued that post-war. His disability concerned human interaction. Especially in late life. He would become intense. Lacking in self-control whenever emotional. Like an oncoming locomotive. A furious man. He would look at you just like Geronimo.
After his death I came to understand that his "war injuries" had damaged his brain. Any emotion caused his brain to suffer hypoxia. Electroshock therapy had cauterized the circulation between his heart and brain. Any adrenaline compromised blood flow to his amygdala, rendering his emotional centers disabled.
Two months before he died I met my father. He had gone on oxygen. Evidently the zones of the brain designated for emotion finally functioned as before. The brain damage was somewhat undone. He instantly developed patience. Those concentric rings of fury framing his eyes softened, disappeared. Light penetrated his eyes, rendering a color of blue I never saw before. His gaze sparkled with nuance, curiosity. We had fluid conversations. He would ask questions, pause, wait for my answer. For the first time in my life, he could wait, listen carefully. He reflected on my words before he replied. I was so fortunate as to finally have a conversation with my father.
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