but these stories don't mean anything

 My dad was a character. He was a hard worker. He smoked a lot of cigarettes. He ate a lot of meat and potatoes. And he made up a lot of stories.

My dad passed away in 1993, long before a quick Google search could expose his stories for the lies that they were. I debunked his long-standing tale of witnessing a Phillies no-hitter in his youth, but the truth was revealed a few years after his death. My mother, however, confronted him regarding the incorrect and misleading information (okay.... lies) he'd given colleagues at his job about my mother's true line of work.

Lies or not, some of my father's stories were pretty entertaining... and funny. I was very young when I first heard them and they were often repeated, usually with more embellishment in each retelling. Here's one that he told often. It's a funny story, but I cannot vouch for its authenticity.

In 1944, my father signed up to join the US Navy. It was the midst of World War II and every red-blooded American boy was convinced that it was his patriotic duty to defend his country against the so-called "Axis" powers. So rather than waiting for his number to come up, my dad happily joined the Navy. (He later told my brother and me that in the Navy, you were guaranteed a bed to sleep in, as opposed to the Army where one's nightly accommodations may be in muddy foxhole with bullets whizzing over your head.)

The butter wouldn't melt,
so I put it in the pie.

My father often treated his family to anecdotes about his two-year stint in military service. He was assigned as a radar signal relayer aboard the USS South Dakota, a battleship that was deployed (for a time) in the South Pacific. A radar signal relayer, according to Seaman First Class Pincus, repeated directional coordinates — that were heard in his headset — to the guy who was aiming the giant turrets towards their determined targets. (This may or may not be true. I don't even know if there was such a position as "radar signal relayer.")

My father claimed that Admiral Halsey, Commander of the Navy's Third Fleet, was aboard his ship for several months, during which the high-ranking officer was spotted by my father only once from a great distance. I marveled at this information, being that my only knowledge of Admiral Halsey was, as per Paul McCartney, he "had to have a berth or he couldn't get to sea." Based on the accuracy of most of my father's stories, it is unlikely that Admiral Halsey was ever on the USS South Dakota. Paul McCartney's claim is also undetermined.

I never meant to cause
you any trouble...

Allegedly, the USS South Dakota was struck twice by enemy fire and my father was hit by shrapnel. The supposed source of the shrapnel was two kamikaze strikes twenty minutes apart. Often, my father would roll up his pant leg and display his bony shin to the delight of my brother and me, pointing out a small, raised length of reddish tissue that he insisted was a scar. There was definitely something on my father's leg. If it was the result of a kamikaze is unconfirmed... as is my dad's claim that the Purple Heart medal that he allegedly received was lost my by grandmother.

My father eventually received an honorable discharge from the US Navy at the end of his twenty-four month stretch. He alerted his parents that he would be returning to their West Philadelphia home soon. And soon he did.

Put another nickel in...

There was a chain of restaurants in the Philadelphia area called Horn & Hardart. Horn & Hardart was unique in its format, introducing the "automat" concept to the United States in the early years of the 20th century. An automat offered simple, "home cooked" fare to hungry customers for a nickel or multiples thereof. Once the correct amount of nickels was deposited in the slot, a glass door could be opened through which food was delivered from the kitchen on other side. (The Horn & Hardart automat is featured prominently in the Doris Day/Cary Grant comedy That Touch of Mink.) It was a novel way to eat and it proved to be very popular. At the height of its popularity, Horn & Hardart was serving an estimated 500,000 customers per day across 157 outlets in Philadelphia and New York. My father numbered himself among those customers. He made sure it was his first stop after arriving home from the Navy.

As my father told it, he went to the Horn & Hardart automat windows with a pocketful of nickels. He made his selections, opening each little window, removing each item and placing them on his tray — meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and a slice of pie. (Sometimes, with each telling and retelling, the meal components changed.) My dad looked around the crowded dining room for an available seat. He found one and placed his laden tray on the table. He realized he had forgotten to get a cup of Horn & Hardart's famous coffee, so headed over to the wall of coffee urns, sifting through his pocket change for another nickel. He drew himself a cup of coffee and returned to his waiting civilian meal. However, when he returned to his table, there was a disheveled woman in ragged clothing busily munching away at my father's dinner. My father was dumbfounded. He stood — frozen — watching this woman shovel forkfuls of meatloaf and potatoes — his meatloaf and potatoes — into her maw. His mind scrambled. What could he do? If he chased her away, he certainly wasn't going to eat the picked-over scraps that was now his dinner. So, he did the only thing he could do. He went back to the automat windows and repurchased a duplicate meal. This time, he stopped to get coffee before finding a table.

My father loved this story and he told it a lot. It is a funny story. I just don't know if it really happened.

But, honestly.....who cares? That was my dad.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com