I have become an angry old man

I have come to the conclusion that I am glad I will not live too many more years. At 72, I have had a full life that started out wonderfully. Two loving parents, doting grandparents, and a slew of aunts, uncles and cousins nearby. Then came WWII and my father's departure for the Marine Corps. Iwo Jima changed him and my relationship with him. He was no longer the gentle person he had been before. That, and the fact that my mother made him the one who passed out discipline for my misdeeds. I began to fear him more than love him. Still there were good times together. Happy times. I remember times spent at my cousin's waterfront home on Chesapeake Bay where one could look into the water under the pier and see sunfish or bluegills guarding their nests in the shallow water. Not so, now. That same water is clouded with pollutants. In my neighborhood, glistening white marble steps shone in the sun. The ladies of the houses there made sure they were kept immaculate. Not so, now. The neighborhood has been taken over by whores and drug dealers. Those white steps are filthy with car exhaust residue, spilled soft drinks and beer. I have seen the America I love being slowly dismantled by the greed of its people on all levels, the corruption at highest offices of government, and the lopsided reporting of events in the press and on TV. I have seen its industrial might that enabled it to defeat terrible enemies during WWII allowed to crumble and fall into disrepair. There is no longer the kind of pride and patriotism that once existed in our cities. It still exists in middle America, but has been lost in the cities. There, the tenets of citizenship and patriotism have been cast aside for corporate profits and personal greed. Those subjects are no longer taught in the schools. I see my country dying of a lack of morals and general apathy. I only hope I die before it does.

Barely Old Enough To Remember

I remember the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. I was only three at the time, but I still remember my mother kept saying, "O my God!" over and over, the look on her face, and asking her "Mommy, what's wrong?" She said, "The Japs just bombed Pearl Harbor." I didn't know what a Jap was or where Pearl Harbor was or why it made my mother so upset, but I learned as I grew older and saw the newsreels in the Linwood Theater across from where we lived on Hudson Street, and saw the war movies that came out showing our troops fighting. And mostly I remember because my Daddy had to go away and get wounded on Iwo Jima. Yes, sadly, I remember. I remember the blackouts, the rationing, Grandmom Schunck saving our cooking grease in a can so it could go into the war effort to be used as a lubricant. I remember the war bond drives, savings stamps, recruiting posters, "Loose lips sink ships" and a lot of other things I would rather not. My sister, Donna, was only six weeks old when it happened, and everyone was already torn up because Grandpop Schunck was in bed paralyzed with a stroke and would die shortly thereafter. Yes, I remember. It was a terrible time, and we have lived with the aftermath all of our lives. It was not until the war was over that the truth about the atrocities committed by the Axis Powers came to full light. The concentration camps, the gassing ovens, the death marches, the true evil and brutality that took place finally showed how much inhumanity could be committed in the name of nationalism. None of us should ever forget or let it happen again.

Tied Together

For me, and lots of other folks, two events in June are inexorably connected: Flag Day and Fathers Day. I am reminded on both of my father who was a Marine who fought and was wounded on Iwo Jima during WWII. Although I was only five years old, I remember the image of the raising of the flag on Mt. Surabachi which was in the newspapers and the movie newsreels at the time. We, my mother, my little sister, Donna, and I, did not know my father's fate. When Donna and I knelt down to say our bedtime prayers, "God bless Daddy" was always part of them. The man who returned from the war would not be like the one who departed for it. The war changed him. He did not talk about it, and when he first got home, suffered with nightmares that woke us frequently. I knew he had been wounded, but it was not until I was much older that I realized the wounds were not just physical. He had been hit by mortar fire and lost part of his knee and suffered wounds in his shoulder and back. When he finally came home, he was still on crutches. He was then, and always will be my hero: John Wayne, Roy Rogers, Superman, and Buck Rogers rolled into one. He passed away five years ago, and I wish we had more time together. I never got to tell him enought times how much I loved him. The things I learned from him I will never forget. The most important one being how to be a man. I hope I learned well.