For longer than I can remember I made an annual phone call to my Grandpa Jack every Memorial Day.
It’s not that this is the only day we spoke on the telephone. No, we spoke often. But Memorial Day became a chance to thank him for his service in World War II, and perhaps more selfishly, a chance to say thanks for surviving to celebrate a day dedicated to those who died serving during war time.
My grandpa joined the U.S. Marines shortly after Pearl Harbor, following in the footsteps of older brothers who joined different military branches as acts of service. They all survived the war, including a brother who was severely injured during the advance at Iwo Jima. For my grandfather, who may have actually fibbed his age to join, he served time in the Pacific building airstrips, or at least that’s how I remember it.
He returned from the war to start his family, which extends currently four generations.
When he died, it was a great loss. I remember three things basically from his funeral. The first was having to fly into St. Louis from Seattle, and stopping immediately at Macy’s to buy a suit because somehow in the rush to get there, I’d left mine at home.
Second, my grandfather volunteered for years at a local senior center—despite being a senior himself—and those who knew him from there lined the street and waved as the car carrying his body passed from the church to the cemetery.
But third, and perhaps more importantly, I remember the U.S. Marines who showed up to help bury my grandfather with full military honors including a three-volley salute, taps and a flag-draped coffin that a young Marine presented to our family, thanking them for my grandfather’s example of service, spoken as if somehow this man knew my grandfather just because he’d been a Marine. I guess in a way, he did.
This and the volunteer center tribute already told me what I’d known for years: My grandfather was a great man. Great enough that his family loved him and greater still that not one but two of his great-grandsons bear his name, one of them being my son Jack. One of our most cherished pictures is Grandpa Jack holding Great-Grandson Jack as a little one.
And so of course, with today being Memorial Day, I miss him more than other days. I don’t say this as a comparison to the pain so many families share on Memorial Day for the loved ones they’ve lost to war. I’m blessed to have spent so many years knowing and loving my grandfather. But today, as always, will give me pause to consider the man who was a proud Marine till the day he died.
