Remembering Those Who Served

Three of my mother's brothers served in World War II. Mom was the baby in her family, so she was still living at home when America entered the war. There were post cards and packets of photos, silk stockings and pennants -- Mom wound up with a boatload of memorabilia. Despite all that, I know very little about my uncles' service. One was in Japan, one in Germany, and one in Australia. One was a bombardier. One refused to ever talk about it again. They all, by God's grace, returned.

What I do know, is that they helped me become who I am today. Maybe they were never aware of it, but they taught me that men work hard, and they care for their wives and their children, but they don't have to sit around sharing feelings and changing diapers to be great husbands and fathers. Maybe it's sexist, maybe it's taboo in this twenty-first century "enlightenment", but moms stayed home to raise their children and dads went to work to provide. And they were all very happy with the arrangement -- my uncles and my aunts. I wanted to be happy as well.

Neither of my parents smoked, but when the smell of my uncles' cigarettes was wafting up the stairs into our bedrooms late at night, I never felt so safe. In a house that was often tense and tomb-like in silence, the raucous laughter and ear-piercing voices of my uncles was a welcome offense for my brother and I. We loved the upset, and our childhood was never more alive. 

Uncle Norman had a cackle that drove everyone in the room to cackle right along with him. He still wore the same size pants he wore when he served in the Army -- only then he wore them at his waist, not somewhere south of it. Uncle Howard had a side glance that could have probably put Mussolini in his place had they sent him to Italy; he made it a point, each time he visited, to tell my mom's poodle to "go play on I-95." And Uncle George -- well, Uncle George was really special. He tortured the life outta me. Yeah, I know, it's sorta weird. But the teasing, the tormenting, telling me I was "full of soup" every time I proudly told him about my report card or something I'd done, it was an affection that was strangely comfortable to me. After all, how tough can a guy be if he takes time out to bother his seven year old niece, right?

As I said, Mom was the baby; she is the only one of all her siblings remaining. Uncle George was the first to pass. Before Uncle Howard died, just a couple of years ago, Scott had the pleasure of meeting him. I'm grateful for that -- Scott reminds me of him the most. Mom still asks for her brothers, is shocked each time I tell her one of them has died. They looked out for her; she looked up to them. 

And so did I.