Career reflections and family veterans

As I sit in my fifth floor apartment watching the city traffic roll by, 860 miles from Waseca, I forget the extent to which my words reach. 

 

To those of you who send word through my parents or relatives, I see you! And thank you for all the kind words. It warms the cockles of my heart that some of you might find enjoyment in my ramblings.

 

But this week I would like to spill my thoughts on Veterans Day, which we all know is on Tuesday, Nov. 11 this year. 

 

In all honesty, I’ve never really put much thought or care into Veterans Day. Yes, like many others, I have family who are veterans or who have served in some capacity. But as a young person seeing most of these family members still alive, it wasn’t anything I bothered to spend a second thought on. Growing up, all I knew was that my grandpa served as a marine, my uncle was in the Army, having gone to West Point, and my other grandfather was in the army reserves. My grandpa and uncle were still alive and healthy, so for a while I didn’t feel the need to worry about their service. My other grandfather had sadly passed away when I was about ten, and I did not know any of his stories nor could I ask him about them. 

 

So I went on living in ignorant young bliss. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I really started to care.

 

You see, in my senior year of high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, just like a lot of young people at the doorstep of their future. All I knew at the time was I wanted to help people. And I was decent at writing. 

 

At one time, I was deciding whether I should go to West Point and join the army, or if I should be a nun. Believe it or not, those were the two options I was weighing. Obviously I decided against either of them, instead opting to help people by sharing their stories, struggles, and triumphs. 

 

But even so, my interest was still piqued. I started asking my grandpa more questions about his time in service and I remember asking my grandma what she remembered about my grandfather’s time in the reserves. 

 

My grandpa told me stories, mostly the more lighthearted ones, about painting cockroaches on the ship and playing cribbage tournaments in the downtime. He even mentioned his time in bootcamp, and somehow smiled through the memory of being hit and yelled at and beat down. He remembered the jungles overseas, his contemplation of getting a tattoo to signify his time served, the funny stories of his buddies on the ship. I have yet to hear the more harrowing stories, but I am sure they are there. 

 

I cherish every story, and one day I hope to record more permanently the stories of both my grandparents so I and other family members have an account of what they did for us and how they sacrificed, maybe not their lives, but their time, safety, and wellbeing. 

 

I had an army recruiter come to my house once. He asked if I had any interest, and I said I was going to go to school to be a journalist. He frowned and said that there weren't really any positions for me in the army. When my uncle, who went to West Point and served in the army, heard that, he was furious. Yes, he told me, of course there are journalists and writers in the army. If I had bothered to look into it and not been told no, maybe that’s where I would be right now. 

 

But I remember the worried look on my grandma's face when I told her I was thinking about going to West Point. She wasn’t going to tell me not to, but I could tell she was remembering the hardship of letting her only son join, go overseas, and get wounded in battle. 

 

It’s not just those who served who sacrificed either, and I realize that now. Everyone who cares about a service member, loves one the way family does, goes through trials of wondering each day whether their loved one is okay or forever thankful that they are. 

 

Although I may never serve in that capacity, I respect all those who have and I say thank you for your time so that I may grow up in a safer world. 

 

My Determination: “The moment had arrived, life or death, freedom or captivity. I had chosen the only way possible that would allow me to look my friends in the face again, if indeed I should live to see my friends again.” – Christopher Gallagher, “The Cellars of Marcelcave”