Stories Are Important

I don’t know that celebrate is the right word for what Americans did December 7^th, but we certainly should remember that date. Those who read news or social media were reminded throughout that day to recall military personnel who faced multiple enemy attacks at Pearl Harbor 75 years ago. History lovers followed up with FDR’s response to this event. What we can do less of these days is listen to stories of living survivors.

Western Kansas men and women answered duty’s call that December day. Hardly a family lived that didn’t send victory mail to loved ones serving in the European, African, or Pacific theaters. Those soldiers lucky enough to return lived among us. They labored as farmers, ranchers, teachers, entrepreneurs, preachers, law enforcement officers, bankers, and other occupations. They were our parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, spouses, friends, and enemies. Some shared recollections so others could better understand sacrificing for the greater good.

 As time passes, more of these heroes become memories. Over 16 million Americans served during WW II. By 2016, the Department of Veterans Affairs calculated that approximately 620,000 of those individuals still survived. As 2017 slides into view, that number drops daily. Unless families presently have a soldier in service, it’s difficult for children to understand the intensity that turned so many youngsters just out of high school into valiant warriors.

For us whose loved ones, friends, co-workers, and teachers wore a WW II uniform, their legacies influenced our lives. I grew up listening to an uncle’s stories of surviving the Pearl Harbor attacks. A Kansas farm boy, he never expected to experience such carnage when he joined the U.S. Navy in 1940. He returned to start a family and teach school. Two generations later, his granddaughter bravely served in Afghanistan.

Another uncle performed his duty on ships guarding the Pacific. He wasn’t a talker, but his service made his family proud and inclined my dad, his younger brother, to join the Marines and serve during the Korean Conflict. That, in turn, inspired later relatives to wear USMC insignia as they protected their country.

Getting out of uniform didn’t end a soldier’s service. Many filled post-war teaching positions. History classes in the not-too-distant past  included lessons from people who fought in hedgerows and survived torpedoed ships. I found t those instructors’ knowledge so valuable that when I began teaching, I asked my students to interview former veterans. Among those stories, we discovered a resident who’d seen the atomic bomb explode. Another pupil’s neighbor helped liberate Dachau. Interviewers learned a survivor couldn’t talk about some experiences without choking up even after 45 years.

These stories provided primary sources that taught the importance of protecting freedoms many take for granted. Suddenly, we’re discovering this information now exists only in books or on film. I hope Americans never forget such difficult times or citizens who left loving homes and comfortable lives to face unrelenting enemies. Their remaining messages remind us to capture the experiences of still living veterans. What they share is profound, necessary, and fleeting if it isn’t recorded.

Growing Older Has Its Merits

Growing older has its merits. You’ve made enough mistakes that you are wiser and more thoughtful. You’re comfortable with yourself. You take others’ opinions and feelings into consideration, but you know what you believe and consider that when you make decisions. You’ve survived catastrophes and tragedies enough that you understand time and love soften pain. Despite physical infirmities and the fact that when you reference commercials, movie stars, and music of your youth, youngsters don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Getting a monthly AARP magazine is a blessing.

That said, gray hair and wrinkles have downsides. One is becoming the oldest generation. The recent deaths of favorite uncles remind me that my husband and I are joining the ranks of elders. That’s hard to take when I think about how much I relied on these individuals for guidance, clarity, humor, and acceptance when I faced challenges or when I needed to know something about my family’s heritage.

An uncle by marriage survived the bombing of Pearl Harbor and served in the Pacific throughout World War II. He came home to be husband, father, and career teacher. Despite battle traumas Uncle Jay certainly faced, my brother and I knew only a kindly man who loved his wife, daughter, and a silly little dachshund. He kept an immaculate yard to de-stress from his classroom. To this day, when I think of him, I see Jay with hose in hand spraying down his already clean patio, watering his trees, or helping the love of his life with household chores.

My dad’s second brother Bob also came to maturity serving in the Pacific. He, too, loved his yard and garden and spent hours growing beautiful roses and luscious vegetables. I recall sitting with him in his front yard watching flocks of mallards fly in to feast on corn he set out for them every day. We didn’t talk much, but the pleasure he felt at these simple activities was evident. He found his peace in nature.

My dad’s oldest brother Seedy was a rough and tumble guy who’d grown to adulthood during The Depression and early Kansas oil boom years. When I consider him, I think of hard hats and rig clothes. My aunt kept reminders of his luck on a kitchen shelf. He and a drilling crew survived a fiery blow out, and the carbonized eyeglasses and tin headgear reminded me that life is tenuous.

This gruff uncle entranced his nieces and nephews by putting his thumb to his lips and blowing on it to make the brim of his hat rise. As a little girl, I tried and tried to make the same thing happen with my little straw cowgirl hat with no luck. I’d missed the part where he leaned back against the wall to create leverage.

Uncle Seedy always found coins in my cousins’ and my ears. Every time we visited, he mined a bank full of quarters and dimes out of these orifices. My joy in this activity continued when I took my little girls to visit him. Not surprisingly, they shared the family trait of sprouting money in their little ears. My aunt later told me a great-uncle had performed this trick with my dad and his siblings. Uncle Seedy loved passing on the magic.

Losing these men means missing their presence and their sense of homegrown fun at family gatherings as well as their wisdom and stories. After they passed, I longed to hear their insights about events that occurred before my time. They enriched my understanding not only of my universe, but also that of my parents.

It’s hard to think about stepping into their shoes. I don’t feel worthy or knowledgeable enough to carry their torches. I still can’t make my hat brim rise when I blow on my thumb or find money in children’s ears. 

Along with the benefits of aging come burdens.