Veterans Day falling on a Wednesday seems like the perfect time to write about my Grandpa, who served in the South Pacific in World War II.
But my memories of him are scant, as both he and my Grandma died tragically when I was ten years old.
I remember him being handy, having made me a giraffe hat stand when I was young and helping with house renovations that included a pulley system trap door for the cats. I remember him having an environment free from worry even as I saw him having to return to work in his later years. And I remember what I can only describe as a stern kindness, quiet and stoic while still being able to play.
I don’t know how much of this I can attribute to his time serving as it never came up. The only sign as I grew up that it ever happened was a single photograph of him at sea. It was never a topic of conversation.
Now that we’re in the age of Ancestry rabbit holes I revisit documents I’ve found. He was the son of a coal worker, unsurprising for the region at the time. Before entering service he was a truck driver in a feed warehouse and his father was out of work. You can track his rise in ranks through muster rolls but there’s no great insight into what he did during the war.
I click on his death record. Sometimes the rabbit hole can go too deep.
My hope to find some grand conclusion from this train of thought has failed. There’s no realisation about life, work, or community to be found. So I suppose the conclusion to this is that documents can’t always build the picture you want them to so you have to hang onto those memories. Close your eyes and picture the trips to Weis Markets, the drives to Halfway Dam, and the dinners at Bechtels.
That’s what I’m doing right now.
–Chris