Dear Lyla,
Yesterday was November 11, and it was Veteran’s Day. On this day we take time to remember all of those who served our nation in the armed forces; it is a way of saying thank you to those in the military who are called upon to make sacrifices in order to protect our freedoms. There are many in our family who have served in the military. Grandma Jo’s mommy and daddy were both in the Army during World War II; and your Bumpa was named after his Uncle EuGene who was also serving in World War II at the time and wanted a namesake should he not return from the battlefield. For many to serve one’s country is a calling and I think your Bumpa felt an obligation to serve when he was a young man. But for Bumpa it was not to be; according to family lore, he did not pass his hearing test on the day of his physical exam and was excluded from joining up. We never talked about the military much as I was growing up, except for the summer that Grandpa Henwood came to stay and he would swap war stories with an old man named Pappy Yokum that lived up the road. Although it was not a common topic of conversation, my sister and I did understand that those who served our country deserved our deference and respect. It came to pass one Christmas that this idea of reverence for those in uniform manifested itself on a road trip to Missouri. I must have been ten or eleven the year that Grandma Jo and Bumpa decided that we would spend Christmas with their friends Charles and Norma in Missouri. We set out for Missouri a few days before Christmas as it took well over twelve hours to get there from Minnesota. I remember that the weather was horrible; it was either sleeting or snowing during the entire trip. Many times we would have to pull over to a gas station to clear road salt and dirt from the headlamps and to refill the washer fluid. It was during one of these stops that my father engaged in what I considered to be the most peculiar behavior; he picked up a hitchhiker. You have to understand this was completely out of character for Bumpa; never in a million years would I have predicted such an act. As Bumpa and the stranger got closer to the car, I noticed that the young man who was to be our new companion was wearing military fatigues. I must admit that at age ten camouflage of any kind was a bit scary (it wasn’t as commonly integrated into fashion and pop culture as it is now). Bumpa instructed Grandma Jo to get into the back seat with Patti and me. As the snow continued to beat down on our car as we traveled south, the conversation in the front seat was lively and quick. The young man had flown in on leave and was trying to get to his folks before Christmas. His parents were poor and he had no extra money for transportation, he was relying on the kindness of strangers to get him home for the holidays. It was amazing how at ease my father felt with this young solider; how quickly they fell into comfortable conversation. After a few hours it was time for the young man to change direction again and so my father pulled off at a truck stop that would get him on the interstate that would lead him home. Bumpa gave the young gentleman money for food (I am not sure if grandma was aware of that but I saw my father reach for his wallet when we stopped) and made sure that there was a trucker willing to give him a lift most of the way home. As we got back on the road, Grandma Jo at the wheel and Bumpa in the passenger’s seat, she asked him what possessed him to do such a thing. Bumpa replied that he had overheard the kid talking to an elderly farm couple who had just driven two hours out of their way to help him out so it couldn’t be that dangerous. Furthermore, he argued, if there was trouble grandma was sitting behind the solider in the back seat poised to bonk him over the head with her high heeled shoe! Bumpa had a way of teasing and joking his way through questions and situations that forced him to confront his emotions. If truth be told, I think grandpa was touched by the kid’s story; a young man out of basic training, missing his folks something fierce and doing anything it took to get home. I am not sure of the soldier’s fate, whether he made it home in time for Christmas; I want to believe that he did. I like to think that perhaps he is out there somewhere, telling his children or grandchildren on this day of remembrance about the time when he felt the kindred embrace of his fellow Americans and what it meant to him and his family all those years ago.
Letters To Lyla 