My father's father.  He's in his 90s, I believe.  Not someone I am particularly close to personally, but an impressive man in his day.  He is, on the one hand, the tyrant of my family, the one who traumatised my dad who went on to traumatise me.  But on the other hand, he is a genius, an old-fashioned American (in the good way), and the way I see it, a victim of the war.  What went wrong in our family was simply collateral damage of the kind that was never tallied up in casualty reports.

He is something of a mystery to me.  In my memory, he has always been slightly deaf, hard to understand (in more ways than one).  But the older I get, and the older he gets, the more interesting he begins to seem.

He's an engineer, a brilliant one.  He never went to college that I know of but he was highly respected among his colleagues.   My dad tells this story that during my grandfather's army days he was asked where he went to school.  Had he been to MIT?  "Well...I taught there once."  He's rich, but he lives like a poor man, in a construction-type trailer on a 160-acre "hunting camp" that he owns.  He only put in running water when the grandkids started visiting.  He used to raise hunting dogs but is absolutely at a loss when faced with a small child.  His wife, my grandmother, is an excellent cook but she makes him beans-and-rice style suppers because he hates for anyone to do something nice for him - that makes him beholden.

He served in the CBI theater in WWII.  He was a Flying Tiger.

He never talks about it, of course, like many others.  I know the war twisted him, destroyed some part of him.  My grandmother has said (according to my dad) that the man who came back was not the same man she married.  For most of my life, he has refused to buy anything Japanese-made.  I don't know if he still does.  But knowing what he must have seen and heard, being in that part of the world at that time in history, it makes sense.

I don't want to give out too much identifying information.  But I know my grandfather had a somewhat significant role in that part of the war.  He wasn't an officer, nothing is named after him, but he has contributed to history.  When I told my history professors where my grandfather was stationed and what his responsibilities were, they nodded in recognition.  And lately I can't help but think that when he's gone, that little bit of history will go with him.

I think he's starting to realize that too, though.  My dad has said that he has started to take out his old wartime photos, now that he has a computer, and scan them and label them.  I think that he has on occasion given a brief explanation of a photo or two, but mostly he is still silent.

Today, I found a photograph of him online, at a Flying Tigers reunion event with some other members of my family.  It was strange seeing him so dressed up and with his hair done.  He looked like someone else.  And I cried.  I cried to see him there, to know that he remembered.  To know that there is this place where in spite of his silence and what it means, he might perhaps feel a sense of honor and pride in himself.  To know that there are others like him, and that some people, at least, have not forgotten. 

I can't imagine the kinds of things a man could see and hear that could change his very heart and seal his lips for a lifetime.  I cannot imagine, from where I sit, at my desk with my computer and my cable internet and TV, what it was like to have sugar rationed, to work in an ammunition factory, to wake up every day knowing that this might be the day the telegram comes.  I know all of these things, but I simply can't imagine them.

I come from a young generation.  A generation often seen as forgetful, ungrateful, unaware.  I know we are lucky to live when we do, to have what we have - no, wait, not lucky.  Blessed.  There's no luck about it.  I know that it is my right to live in freedom and peace, but that being "my right" doesn't make the bad guys hand it over on a plate.  I'm anti-war, and I don't want to be in the military.   There is an ocean of years between myself and the Greatest Generation.  But I am far from ungrateful.

I am proud - not necessarily to be an American, because that's beginning to matter less and less.  But proud of my family.  Proud to be a granddaughter, or a niece, to be related to these people I can be proud of.

And yes, I do know that Memorial Day is to honor the fallen, while Veteran's Day is to honor those who served.  But since I don't have any fallen to honor, I will honor who I can.

So.  To my father's father, my mother's father, my uncles, the husband of my best childhood friend.  To everyone who wears or ever has worn a uniform for their country.  To everyone who has lost someone who served.  And to the families, like mine, of those who survived but came back...different (because war casualties are more than just the numbers dead and wounded).  I remember.  I am grateful.  I honor you.
 
I will not forget.  Today, tomorrow, or any other day.