Father Anchises cried:
“Is war thy gift, O new and alien land?
Horses make war; of war these creatures bode.
Yet oft before the chariot of peace
their swift hoofs go, & on their necks they bear
th' obedient yoke & rein. Therefore a hope
of peace is also ours.
—Virgil, Aeneid, Bk III
This weekend I came across a letter from World War II that my grandfather wrote to his firstborn daughter (and my late aunt). My grandpa, Bernard, was stationed with army transport in Paris, France. While trained as a medic, he got used in a more psychological capacity to help treat American soldiers suffering from shell shock.
Wanting to heal people like these men, my grandfather sought to become a doctor after the war, but he had a family to feed and college cost too much anyways. So, being from Michigan, he went to work for General Motors, later becoming a plant foreman and raising six kids on that salary.
His personality was warm but quiet. To start off his daily routine, he would rise at 4 am every morning, fix a pot of coffee and drink it in a dimly-lit room for an hour straight, then smoke a bunch of cigarettes and at last walk to work.
My grandfather, while a devout Catholic, did not preach, and instead lead by example. He was always dependable, a johnny-on-the-spot for anyone needing aid. Much to my regret, he died from cancer—not due to plant fumes, nor his smoking, but the lab’s cleaning chemicals of all things—too early for me to get to know him well.
The letter is striking for its softness. He knew he was writing to a young child and met her where she was at. The doll he sent her was not cheap on a soldier’s salary, but surely a nice touch for his then only child. Even an ocean and continent away and just barely a father, he still had that warm-hearted appeal. A man of substance all in all.
Paris, France
25 Aug 45
My precious daughter Diane,
When you receive this package, it will be very near your third birthday. Since Daddy is unable to be there for it, I am sending this little Alsace girl. With beautiful blue eyes & blond hair just like yours, you two I know will like one another.
She came from a very beautiful land where all little girls have dark hair, blue eyes, & play, dance, & sing all the day long. If I could be home for your birthday, we would have a party &, with all your dolls, serve ice cream, cake, & pink lemonade.
Seeing that it is impossible, the little Alsace girl will take my place at your party. Goodbye for now little princess. Please remember your daddy loves you, & that *you will always hold first place in my heart.*
All my love,
Daddy
When my grandfather returned, there were many, many parties for all the kids. He made sure of that.
That is from one side of the family. Now from the other:
Family lore often reads like one of Aesop’s fables. My great uncle Burt was a farmer & sawmill owner. Now his son, Pat, was a Vietnam pilot who flew over 100 missions. He later became a NASA astronaut as an on-the-ground test pilot.
My cousin Pat was also a bit of a daredevil. Some years back, his sister was to be married at Uncle Bert's house & cousin Pat got a bright idea: Fly by the wedding. *Somehow* he obtained an F-15—in itself highly impressive—& zoomed over the ceremony. It was a great surprise gift to his kid sister, right?
Well, the jet's noise had some unintended, & highly expensive, consequences. At the time, Pat’s mother (my great aunt) had an extensive rare set of Irish crystal brought over by boat. Because of the sound wave's vibrations, they all crashed, falling off the rack, smashing on the floor. Which Uncle Bert now has to replace, from Ireland, by boat—again!
That is not nearly all. Uncle Bert’s farm also has dozens of cows, which the F-15's noise scared half to death. So much so they could not milk for days on end. A veterinarian had to come by to just keep the cows alive. Which Uncle Bert had to pay for.
Yet worst was yet to come: the turkeys! Uncle Bert’s neighbor had 150 turkeys. Unlike the cows who were scared half to death, the poor turkeys went all the way. Huddled together in the barn, they forgot to breathe, dying from suffocation. All of them, gone. Which—you guessed it—Uncle Bert had to pay for. Again!
Now how much did this antic cost? I lack exact numbers, but rumor has it that thanks to cousin Pat's antics, Uncle Bert spent 6 months sawing trees to pay off the neighbor's losses. Not to mention the veterinarian & another trip to Ireland. However, Uncle Bert was not one to complain. Well, not that much, anyways.
Being a stubborn Irishman for one thing. For another, he was likewise something of a merry prankster, even one with expensive jokes. Once Uncle Bert fixed his truck to look like his St. Bernard was driving, while he crouched to peer & steer. When the sheriff drove by, being so shocked by the sight, he crashed right into the ditch. Whose repairs Uncle Bert had to pay for. This time merely two weeks of sawing trees.
I could see where cousin Pat got his daredevil streak: like son, like father. It seems there were other incidents. I just want to know how many lumberjacks and millers Uncle Bert kept employed with these antics. Probably the number of trees evened out somewhere with Johnny Appleseed's ouvre. At this farm, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.
To be worthy of such family tradition. But first things first: Get a sawmill to pay for it.
Both Bernard & Pat got to come home. As did many others in my family. For those souls who did not, happy Memorial Day!