Don

My parents have a large suitcase-looking thing full of photographs. They aren't organized. They're all thrown in there, haphazardly. The strap on the case broke a long time ago because the case is so heavy. It holds thousands of family photographs. My son and I looked through them a little bit, and I picked out a few to share. My dad, for some reason, segregated his old family photographs and keeps them elsewhere.

I'm calling this post "Don" because that's the name on the Polaroid. Remember Polaroids? They're terrible, as this photo attests. I actually lightened it and tried to balance the color, but it's still dark and unbalanced. I can't tell what the girl's name says. It actually looks like "Jassi," though that seems strange. It looks like we all wrote our names because the penmanship is different for each. 

Anyway, who are Don and Jassi? Many years ago when my family still lived in Hot Springs, there was a program during school hours that allowed some kids to go to the Veterans Administration (VA) campus and spend time with some of the old guys there. It was a sort of "adopt-a-grandfather" or "adopt-a-veteran" program. Some of the kids went to some other sort of program, and this was the alternative. That's me going to the alternative. And wearing a Harley-Davidson shirt.

I have watched approximately two million old war movies, and some new ones too. They all seem about the same, use the same cliches, and communicate the same themes. It's safe to say the majority are propaganda. But I'm also a student of history, and I know there is something special about the WW II vets. Don was most likely a WW II vet, as were most of the old guys at the VA in the 1980s. Sadly, most of them are probably gone now. 

So what did we do when we hung out with these veterans? I remember taking tours of the VA and learning about their lives there. One worked as the postmaster. Another worked in the kitchen. It was like a small town and everyone knew one another. What I imagined as a lonely existence was decidedly not.

I should mention a shameful moment. It was decided we were to have a big party and our parents could meet our "grandparents" at the VA (the Polaroid is likely from that party). Well, if you know anything about my childhood, this presented a problem. My parents were extremely busy people, and I was not a priority in their lives. I decided my parents most likely would not attend so didn't tell them about it. Why bother them with something like that? Well, my veteran was pretty upset with me when they didn't come. I didn't explain to him what my life was like. He went downtown and introduced himself to my mom where she worked. And then my parents were upset with me, though probably because I made them look bad. 

Honestly, even today, I don't think they would have gone to the party. If my dad wouldn't take me fishing, why would he go to a stupid party at the VA? It's hard to explain, but my parents were hard people (and still are), and work was more important than anything, including me. Those were the values I learned growing up, and those are the values I've had to unlearn. I wrote a post about six months ago called "My life as a rescue dog," which is the closest I've come to explaining what my life has been like. When I was in elementary school, my class was planning a field day to go skiing at Terry Peak. Well, I was sad because I just knew my parents wouldn't let me go. We were supposed to get their permission, and I absolutely dreaded asking. I waited until it appeared they were in a good mood after visiting relatives. On the way home I asked if I could go ... and was blown away when they said yes. Such was the power of my programming that took place early in life. I was afraid to ask if I could go on a school trip. They never let me do things like that, though. I still remember how much fun it was. That day, the rescue dog had a ball. 

(On a related note, recently I ordered flowers for my mom for Mother's Day. When they came, they were in a box and she had to open them (I thought they would have a local shop make them, but whatever). Her question, and I'm not making this up, was, "Which of my two sons is this from?" At that, even my weird coworkers who detest me came to my defense. It was from neither of them. She has three sons. They were from me. I wasn't even considered when she opened the box. This is typical of my parents. When I'm walking behind them, for instance, and they go through a door, they will close the door on me without even thinking. No wonder my life has played out the way it has. I'm literally invisible. I guess that's why I have this blog. My interpretation of these things is important. I have decided on a non-threatening interpretation. I love my mom. She says dumb stuff sometimes. I know she loves me. But I digress.)

Aside from my party faux pas, it was pretty incredible hanging out with the old guys at the VA. I thought they were pretty old. Now my parents are likely older than those guys were then. I remember we had similar interests, though. We put together model aircraft, aircraft carriers, and various other war machines. I remember purchasing some spectacular model for one of those guys, but I forget if it was for Christmas or his birthday. It must have been for Christmas, as I recall going to Ace Hardware, picking it out, and having it gift wrapped. I did this alone. In the dark of evening. With my own money. I was pretty proud to present this to my vet. He was thrilled.

As my life has worn away, I've become even more fond of the Greatest Generation, the WW II men and women. Juxtaposed against today's generations, they stand in stark contrast. Their values and sacrifice continue to amaze me. I'm glad I got to spend that time with some of America's finest.