Phone calls and letters

There's something about having a military son that hasn't changed in a century. When your boy answers the call and heads to Basic Training, you won't see him for months, and your only communication during that time will be letters and a handful of phone calls.

My father served in World War II, joining what was at that time the Army Air Corps. This was before the Air Force was created. A wiry young lad, born on a farm in West Virginia, my father had known many hardships in his young life. His father died in the flu epidemic of 1918 as did several other close relatives. His mother had to sell the farm,  move into town and take in boarders, cook and clean, while caring for two small boys. The family relocated to Buffalo, NY when his mother finally remarried.

My dad was one of many who saw joining the military as an opportunity to protect our nation and do something important. Love of country was stronger than love of self. Leaving everything familiar behind, men like my dad, headed off to a very uncertain future and possibly death. The only link to home was through letters.

It's an interesting thing about these letters. I would bet if you asked 100 military people, 99 would say they saved every note, every card, every letter they received while serving. Those letters are a delicate lifeline that can cross thousands of miles and tether a soldier to home. My dad saved the letters he received as well as the ones he wrote home. Upon his mother's death, they were found among her treasured possessions, of which there were few.

After my father's death, my mother gave each of the children some of those letters. What a treasure. Reading them gave me a better sense of the man my father was in his younger years, and they helped me get to know my grandmother. Though I never met her, I feel I know her well. We share a bond, stronger now because of her letters.

Tomorrow...letters.                                  

How did we get to this point?

How did we get to this point?

From an early age, my father instilled in me and my brothers when we were still very small a great love and respect for our nation. When my baby sister, Darby, came along, same thing. He turned her into a little patriot.

Dad served in the Air Force during World War II as a pilot. He made many friends and lost many friends during that conflict. He didn’t talk much about his service, but he was so very proud to have served.  When I think of it now, he flew planes that look today to be little more than a tin can that had sprouted wings. My dad flew bombers in the days before flying was even remotely safe. In fact, it was still quite new. Many people had likely never seen a plan up close, let alone fly in one.

Americans persevered against all odds. If you didn’t actively serve, perhaps you worked in a factory creating items critical to the military. If not a part of the civilian effort to supply the military, you very likely were impacted by the rationing of goods. Most certainly you prayed for our country, our President, and our warriors. Needless to say, my father, like most people of his generation, felt immense national pride that has seemingly begun to wane in recent years.

Fast forward to the 1960’s and 1970’s. Some of my most vivid memories are of my patriot Dad. Dad flew the flag on our house proudly for all patriotic occasions. We went to parades and paid proper respect to Old Glory when it passed by. When the Star Spangled Banner played, he sang and we did too. He was red, white and blue, through and through. Little wonder that one of my most urgent purchases as a homeowner was an American flag to affix to the front of my house. (Last year we upgraded to an 18 foot pole installed permanently in our front yard.

Today I thank him for the foundation he gave me in proud citizenship. I do everything I can to pass that on to those in my circle of influence.

Little wonder, that I married a Viet Nam veteran who held a part time job installing flag poles all across Western New York. It should have come to me as no surprise that my boys collected and played with G.I. Joes. It seemed like the natural course of things when my son, Tyler, decided that he would like to be part of the Old Guard and stand watch at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier after a visit to Arlington. (Eventually, he changed his mind, but for many years, that was the path he intended to take.)

My feelings of patriotism came head to head with my fear of the unknown when my first son made the ultimate decision to join the United States Army. Had my father been living at that time, he surely would have said something like, “Well this is where the rubber meets the road.” No doubt, he would have come to the conclusion, long before I did, that my son was a true American patriot.

Tomorrow, read about the moment of truth for this Patriot Mom…