**Authors’ note–I don’t have much to say; the post speaks for itself. Originally posted November 11, 2017
My Grandfather, born in 1912, had many stories to tell me later in his life. He was a Mazurah boy (born in Colorado like me). His father was a traveling salesman. German and very stoic, my Grandfather saw no reason to talk. It wasn’t until I had children of my own, his great-grandchildren, his legacy, that he began to open up. I heard stories of his pre-war days when he was a jazz musician and traveled the nation playing with the “Big Bands.” He traveled with the circus and a group of crazy Italians on the East Coast. He told me stories of playing his trumpet until his lips bled. And how he learned to make the best marinara sauce after spending countless hours in the Italian homes eating and enjoying life. I heard stories of lean times as he survived the depression and so many other trials.
I loved the pictures of the bands in which he played and all the entertainers. Somehow, he ended up back in his tiny hometown of Nevada, Missouri. He married my grandmother, enlisted in the Army, and ran off to fight a war. His crazy days of running wild came to a sudden end in 1941. The world and the nation changed in the blink of an eye.
He never talked about that war much. Those were dark times for him that left lasting mental scars. After the war, he drank a lot to wash away the memories of what he had seen, what he had done. He tried to forget, but the scenes played over and over in his mind. They haunted and tormented him.
In the years before my mother, my grandmother devoted her time to help on the home front. She was a tiny lady in stature, which made it simple for her to squeeze in the tail of those planes to rivet. My grandma was a “Rosie the Riveter.”
My family history makes me proud on this Veteran’s Day. After learning of my Grandfather’s sacrifices, it became my tradition to call him each November 11th to express my most profound debt of gratitude for my free life. He cried each and every time I called. It meant the world to him that I would take the time to remember. How could I forget? He was my grandpa and my hero.
The last Veteran’s day I called him, 1998, through his tears, through my tears, he told me, “it was hard, it was so hard and awful, and I’m sorry we had to.” Those words and his voice crackling on the other end of the line are forever etched in my mind. He died a few days later, the day after Thanksgiving. My Grandfather was eighty-six years old.
His funeral was full military honors for the time he gave this nation, 1941-1969, when he retired for good. He left pieces of himself on foreign soil, the battlefield of freedom. His service was concluded with the lone Soldier off in the distance playing “Taps.” That was his role; he had been that solitary Soldier playing “Taps” at countless funerals for numerous friends and fellow servicemen.
I am blessed to honor his memory today. My heart is still overwhelmed with thanksgiving for my Grandfather and so many others who have served and still serve my nation.
I am an American. My forefathers traveled to this nation in search of freedom hundreds of years ago. They fought for independence in the Revolutionary War, in the Civil War, WWI and WWII, Korea, and so many wars and battles in between.
On day ten of endless thanksgiving, I am thankful to be a daughter of the American Soldier and a recipient of the freedom for which they sacrificed.
Thank you so much for sharing that – what an amazing story and what an honor to have such a legacy!
My grandfather was amazing! I have so many fond memories of him. My mom had the opportunity to lead him to salvation the day before he passed.