Eyes that see the good in things- May 28, 2018

Like most of you, I’ve been remembering family members this week, preparing for Memorial Day. When I read this story, it reminded me of a young me, listening to my great-grandma tell stories about the young son who lost his life while serving his country. She would share something she about him and then, with her smile becoming a twinkle in her eyes, she would reach out and touch my little brother’s dimples. The dimples that would flash whenever he smiled and the same dimples she had seen when she looked into the face of her own young son.

I always loved visiting her home, which seemed to smell of a blend of her perfume and lemons. She was the only person I knew who still made lemonade with real lemons, and she made it frequently. She served it with her huge sugar cookies and she always had lemon drops. When she started talking about my great uncle, I always felt uncomfortable. I suppose, because I was young and didn’t like to think about young people dying. In any case, I could relate to the author of a Guideposts story, “Memorial Day: A Time for Heroes,” and I’m sure many of you can too.

Nancy Sullivan Geng’s story is about Memorial Day with her family. She was sixteen and felt she was “too old and definitely too cool” for her family’s Memorial Day observances. She wished she were invisible, so no one she knew would see her waving one of those small American flags her mom bought for all of them at the dime store. She also wished she was at the lake with most of her friends. There was no chance of that, though, because it was mandatory in her family to attend the Memorial Day observances and all-day festivities.

Geng’s hometown held a Memorial Day parade in the morning, which she remembers watching every year. The high school band would come first, followed by the local fire department’s polished fire trucks, which was followed by surviving war veterans.

Her grandmother rode in one of four black convertibles that followed the veterans. She perched on the backseat waving, smiling and wearing a corsage. There were signs on the doors of these cars that read “Gold Star Mothers” in gold embossed letters. She was a Gold Star Mother because her son had been killed in Italy during the war.

As a 16-year-old, she hid so she didn’t have to meet her grandmother’s eyes. She loved her grandma, but the attention that she got for a son who had died 20 years ago was embarrassing. After all, she had four other children. Now, she had many grandchildren so why “linger over this one long-ago loss?”

Their Memorial Day ritual lasted all day and included her grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls, dinner, a family baseball game in the backyard and always reminiscing about Uncle Bud in the kitchen. This year was different for Geng though. Sitting in the living room, half listening to the same stories, she said she found herself looking at the same Army photo of him that she had seen a thousand times before. So young. So proud. Looking younger to her than he ever had before, and she felt a desire to get to know him.

He was starting to look younger because she was getting older. Who were you, Uncle Bud? She heard someone approaching behind her and turned to see her grandmother, drying her hands on her apron.

Geng said she almost hid the photo because she didn’t want to listen to the same stories she had heard year after year. Stories about the dog that Bud loved so much and about how hard he had worked after they lost their farm; he would work all day for other farmers and then bring all of his wages home and give them to his mother. “I’m going to buy you a brand-new farm, Mama. I promise.”

Something was different as she listened to the stories this time, because she started thinking about the young boy who was alone in a foreign country and had been shot down by a sniper. She had trouble putting that boy together with the story about the boy and his dog.

They stood together silently for a moment. The only sounds came from outside— the sharp snap of the flag flapping in the breeze and her cousins cheering for the family baseball game. When Geng asked her grandmother what a hero was, her grandma turned, without a word and walked down the hall to the bedroom. After pulling a small metal box out of the dresser drawer, she sat down on the bed.

Opening the box, her grandma told her that the items inside were things that belonged to Bud and were returned by the Army had returned after he died. Then she handed her the telegram they received telling them that Bud had died. “The Secretary of State regrets to inform you that your son was killed in Italy.”

“Your son! “ Geng thought about her grandmother reading those words. Then her grandmother handed her Bud’s wallet, which even after all those years was caked with dried mud. Inside the wallet was Bud’s driver’s license, which Geng compared to the driver’s license she had just gotten. As she was looking at the license, a picture fell out of his wallet. It was a photo of him with the little dog he loved so much.

There were other photos in the wallet. A picture of him with two of his friends, a picture of his mom, his brother and his sister, and one of his mother alone, waving. With tears welling in her eyes, she realized that this was Bud’s way of taking home with him.

Geng and her grandmother sat on the bed together that day, going through the box’s contents: his gold watch, a sympathy letter from President Roosevelt and one from Bud’s commander, his purple heart medal and at the very bottom, was the deed to her grandmother’s house.

She looked up at her grandmother and asked her why the deed was in Bud’s box. Her grandmother explained that it was because Bud had bought the house for her. The United States government had given her $10,000 when Bud died. She used that money to build the house she lived in until she died.

“He kept his promise all right,” her grandmother said quietly. Geng said she finally understood why it was so important for grandmother and her family to remember Uncle Bud on this day. She chose her words carefully, “I guess he was a hero because he gave everything for what he believed.”

Her grandmother nodded, wiped a tear away and told her to not ever forget that. Geng said she’s never forgotten. Her grandmother is gone now, but she and her husband still take their lawn chairs to the same tree-shaded boulevard, where she watched Memorial Day parades as a child, and she thinks of her Uncle Bud.

We would love to share local stories about the good things your eyes are seeing.

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