My father was a framed black and white photograph. He sat on the table next to my bed. Every evening, just before going to sleep, I said, ‘Goodnight Dad. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He didn’t answer of course, because he was a “Picture Daddy”. That’s all most of us had back in the early 1940s. Our real fathers were overseas. They were fighting in places like Omaha Beach in France, Okinawa, Bataan and Iwo Jima.

Blood did not stain the streets of the North American cities. Boston was neither invaded nor bombed. But the threat was there.

President Roosevelt spoke to us on the radio and called on us all to fight-even little kids like me. He said, "One front and one battle where everyone in the United States – every man, woman and child is in action. That front is right here at home, in our daily lives."

We did our part. Mom covered up our windows at night, so the bombers would have no targets. She used her ration book with care to ensure that there would be more food for the soldiers. Every spare penny she had, was loaned back to the United States government in the form of War Stamps and Bonds.

For most of my life, I had only a “Picture Daddy”, so I wasn’t quite sure how to take the news when Mom said, “Daddy’s coming home. It’s been three years since he went away to the war but it’s over now and he’s coming back!”

A few weeks later on a crisp, windy Autumn day in 1947 we walked to the depot to await the arrival of the Troops.

The steam engine chugged in, gave two short bursts of its whistle and squealed to a halt. Before the Spssssssssh of the brakes had died out, unbroken strings of Khaki streamed from every door of the Boston and Maine passenger cars and seamlessly melded into the waiting arms of wives and friends.

All the soldiers looked alike. But Mom spotted Dad and ran for him, dragging me along behind. They embraced for what seemed to a five year old boy, an agonizingly long time.

Finally Dad’s eyes left Mom and he looked at me.

“Is this my little boy?”

I edged backwards.

“Come here son. I’m Your Dad,” he pleaded as I broke into a trotting retreat and a full bore cry.

Racing after me, Mom and Dad quickly caught up.

“What’s the matter Billy,” Mom asked. “Don’t be afraid of your Dad.”

“He’s not my Father,” I protested. “My Father’s at home, next to my bed.”

“That’s just a picture of your Dad. This is your real Dad,” Mom said.

“Well I like my Picture Daddy better,” I whined.

Inside of a few days, of course, I gave up my attachment to the photo and began to enjoy having a flesh and blood father. And he was a pretty good Dad too. Like most kids, I took him for granted. Somehow, he was always there when I needed him.

He got me through Boy Scouts, my first girlfriend, first car, high school, marriage, and even my first child. So strong and powerful was he, that I just couldn’t imagine him ever getting sick…or dying.

At 75, he was still playing touch football with the kids and grandkids. He could dance longer, and drink harder than most people half his age. But along came Alzheimer’s and eventually it took him away.

Now, at 65, I’m an orphan….and back to having a “Picture Daddy”. He sits on a table next to my bed. Each night before I go to sleep, I look at him and tell him…. “I like my real Dad better than you.”