A True Story

“Fate is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

It’s always struck me as uncanny how history brushes past us, sometimes with a whisper, sometimes with a roar. My father, like me, narrowly escaped being swallowed by a war—not because of luck alone, but because fate had a curious sense of timing.

Back in 1970, as I wandered the halls of junior high and high school, the Vietnam War was more than a headline—it was a shadow over every boy’s future. Each night, the news carried grim numbers from the front lines, each death toll a reminder that war might reach out and touch any of us. By 1972, the Selective Service System was drafting the last waves of men born in 1953. I watched the lottery numbers scroll across the screen, each one a potential sentence. By the time I graduated in 1975, the war was over. I had dodged a bullet, literally and figuratively—but the tension of those years lingered like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

My father had his own brush with fate, a story our family tells with reverence. My mother never let him forget it. “Knock it off, Dom,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye. “Remember, I saved your life during the war!”

When they married, it was common for wives to follow their husbands to basic training. My mother did more than follow—she inserted herself into the heart of the war machine. Stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, my father trained as a mechanical draftsman—a role meant to keep him away from direct combat—but the real pivot of destiny came from my mother’s steady hands and sharp mind.

She landed a coveted position working as a secretary for a general. Her efficiency, professionalism, and charm made her indispensable. Here’s where fate intervened in the most extraordinary way: my father was scheduled to deploy to the Pacific Theater just as the war in Japan was reaching its climax. But the army could not find a suitable replacement for my mother, because she would have left her post once he deployed. The search dragged on, and with each passing day, the war ended. Japan surrendered, and the military began discharging soldiers instead of sending them overseas. My father’s deployment orders were canceled—he never set foot on a ship bound for the Pacific.

Had he left sooner, he might have been part of the occupation forces in Japan, helping rebuild a country scarred by war. Instead, he returned home unscathed, a civilian again, saved by the simple fact that my mother was too good at her job to be replaced.

He tells the story with a mix of pride and disbelief. “I was packed, ready to go,” he’d say with a grin. “Turns out your mother’s secretarial skills mattered more than any battle plan.”

And my mother, always ready with a wink, would remind him, “Don’t you forget it, Dom.”

It’s funny how history can pivot on the smallest actions. A typed letter, a missed draft, a delayed deployment—moments that seem trivial at the time can carry the weight of a thousand possibilities. Fate isn’t always grand or obvious. Sometimes, it’s quiet. And sometimes, it’s a mother at a typewriter, unknowingly rewriting the story of a life.