I recently came across an article stating some of the most popular regrets people of all ages face, with one being the failure to ask their grandparents questions. Questions about their greatest adventures, greatest of friends, memories, sights, experiences. Greatest moments of their entire life. Knowing my grandfather had said great life due to the many stories he has already shared with me, I realized that I knew little about the details that created it. With this new awareness and peaked curiosity, I documented a series of questions I would like to know about my grandfather’s early life. He responded with a three-page letter covered in blue ink and old memories just in time for his 91st birthday. Let me share:
When my grandpa was growing up, his only worry in the world was being called by the wrong name through grade school all because of a family accent (you see, his family is from Hungary and the school failed to acknowledge the English translation of his name during registration. And so, he continued through school under a similar though not quite correct identity.) He grew up alongside a sister and two brothers, both of which were extraordinary athletes in a variety of sports. He played imaginary games with neighborhood kids, became quite good at basketball, and went to church followed by Sunday school every single week. The epitome of a video game-less, technology free childhood he now recalls as simply “playing and having fun.” No worries, that is, until 11th grade when he received notice that he would be called to fight for the United States in World War II. The year was 1940 and the US, for the first time, enacted the Selective Training and Service Act, which required all men between the ages of 21 to 35 to register with local draft boards to fight in a war our country was not yet involved in. In 1940, my 15-year-old Grandfather expected nothing more than to carry on his high school career, baseball, and basketball. Yet, just two years later, when the draft expanded to include not-yet 18 year-olds, he received a card in the mail. He and much of his class left the familiar 11th grade halls, the sister and two brothers, the Sunday School and basketball shoes, for the army.
When I asked my grandfather whether he knew what, exactly, the war was about, he accredited a vast understanding of the 1940s world to his knack of knowing all current events (which I must say he kept up-to-date until today). He also quite detailing remembers his first experience in the army, at Fort Dix, where he was put on “KP” or Kitchen Patrol by a mess sergeant that was particularly hard on new recruits. A day of KP included waking up at the wee hours of 4:30am to inspect the kitchen, and leaving sometime after 10pm to only wake up and repeat. Continuous cleaning of the mess hall tables and floor was, in all of 91 years, the “longest day” of his life. Assumingly, he had to have spent these endlessly lengthy days alongside good company to keep him sane. Although I received few details on what friends he made throughout his time in the army, he says he “had plenty of friends from all walks of life”. What lives these friends walked from or towards or whatever which way I may never know, but I do know he thinks of them fondly. Once, while organizing some papers in his living room, I came across a stack of pictures. Wondering who was alongside him in uniform (several army, many basketball), he simply and sweetly stated, “Those are my friends”. What good of friends I wish to find that need no further explanation than a gentle smile.
Friends and fellow soldiers were fair company, but superiors were quite the contrary. My grandfather served under one rather stern general by the name of George S. Patton, or, as my grandfather remembers, better known as “blood and guts”. One of my grandfather’s most vivid memories of the General was when he was inspecting my grandfather’s rifle for guard duty and asked his barely visible peach fuzz “When did you shave last?”, followed by, “Son, you better start shaving”. He went on to recall that his general’s infamous nickname was not a testament to his valor and work ethic, rather an unsuspecting warning to his men – “His guts, your blood”. He shaved his face that night.
What did the average day look like for my grandfather, a soldier of only 18? 4:30 wake up, inspection, breakfast, 25-mile hike lasting for around eight hours. This was a favorable day in comparison to his worst while in the army, which consisted of sitting in a foxhole for an entire three days. Both experiences though, felt like forgotten memories on his most memorable day when everyone went home. “The war is over.” Still, he claims being drafted at the high school age of 17 to be his greatest experience (thus far) in 91 years of life.
My grandfather returned to his brothers, sister, and mother, all who he had last seen crying when he left all those years ago (with the exception of the one brother, also fighting for our country, who he met up with in Czechoslovakia). He soon returned to the long forgotten hallways to receive his diploma, but not before attending several Saturday night dances at the Liberty Bell room that would bring him to meet my Nana – who must’ve really been something special, because all the girls “swooned” watching him dance. They soon married, continued on as local hubs best dancing duo, had two daughters, and enjoyed a charmingly humble life with my grandfather beginning a career at an infamous company that would carry on for forty-five years, beginning in the assembly line and ending in higher rankings; a career he now describes as “good, exciting, and fun”. I suppose that’s all you can ask for in search of a life-long livelihood.
At the lively age of 91, my grandfather reminisces on the greatest meal he’s ever eaten – his mother’s homemade stuffed cabbage – life long favorite color of blue for its cool and relaxing qualities, most vivid memory involving the tragic attacks on 9/11 (despite all he witnessed firsthand), most beautiful sight he’s ever seen being the Radio City Follies Girls in New York City. If he could go anywhere in the world, he would hit every stop, including space. The most fun he’s ever had in his entire life was participating in sports tournaments and the thing he misses most about being a child is growing up. After 91 years of life, my grandfather continues the mentality that got him through his formative years under a mispronounced name, those many years under General BloodAndGuts command cleaning, scrubbing, scouring kitchen floors, days spent crouched inside a muddy foxhole, and a nearly 50-year career. What outlook on life this perseverance must’ve taken, you ask? “Taking one day at a time” and “thanking my lucky stars”.
This, perhaps, has cultivated into a mindset that has allowed him to continue living independently and remaining mentally tough because, after all, “you’ve got to fight pain with pain”. Perhaps this is where his extraordinary optimism and positive outlook on all of life’s best days and worst was first born. Today, I look towards my grandfather for updates on worldly events, glimpses into a near-forgotten era, attic trips to see with my own eyes his treasured baseball mitt and World War II antiques, lessons on a dual language he remains fluent in, and so much more. He claims to be my greatest fan – always asking if I’m enjoying school, how my rowing is going, whether or not my car is running well – but really, I am his. I suppose, what keeps you happy, sane, and humble for eternity is 91 years of forever friends from all walks of life, strong family bonds withstanding the test of time overseas, ongoing passions whether they lie in basketball or baseball or racecars or magic, and an internal motivation to endure the toughest of life’s moments. Not to mention a loving and lasting relationship, strong faith, and Friday night bowling team that continued into old age. Perhaps it really is as simple as that.
Last year, my grandfather confidently marched onto the boardwalk, enjoying the beautiful beach view, to celebrate 90. I sure hope he continues some adventures into his 91st.
