The Greatest Generation and I

My great-uncle George was the type of uncle, no matter the generation, every kid should have in their adolescence. Along with my other uncles, he managed to lighten and liven things up during family gatherings. He told jokes, ruffled our hair, let us watch television late, all while aiding and abetting our myriad delinquencies (cookie smuggling).

I remember him best as the family's chocolate-icing-bandit. It was a simple ploy, actually, nothing very clever, unique or, quite honestly, fresh. See, there's a gene in my family that compells many of us to flop chocolate cake on its side and eat the cake out from in between the icing with extreme care. Given our gene for obsessive compulsion, this becomes a very pains taking task, in which we ensure the icing does not collapse on itself and that all the cake is neatly picked away from the icing. Doing so leaves a carefully crafted "F" of sorts on your plate.

There are those, however, who did not receive this gene. My brother, who was known to shovel entire cakes into his maw, did not receive it. Nor did great-uncle George.

George would sit patiently at the dinner table watching my other uncles and those of us with the gene complete our task. Then, quite simply, he'd go for the lamest distraction technique known to man:

"Look! A dead bird flying!"

That's right, a dead bird flying. D-E-A-D dead. Croaked. Shuffled its mortal coil. No longer with us. Incapable of flight. Corpse. Worm food.

My uncle always looked in the direction indicated by George's left index finger. And without hesitation, George's right hand and fork always swooped down to the dupe's plate, scooped up the icing and delivered it to his mouth before said dupe discovered his fateful error. I'm not sure why my uncle let him get away with this silly trick so many times. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he was the witting straightman to George's comedy routine. I don't think I'll ever know.

The other thing I really know about my great-uncle George is that he fought in World War II. The story of his service has never been very clear to me. I know that he fought in the Pacific theater. I know that he was severely injured in the left hand. But I know little else. I was simply too young to be very aware of what he had done. I never asked him any questions, mostly because I didn't know what to ask.

He passed away thirteen years ago.

It wasn't until last week, that I fully appreciated the breadth of who this man was. I had the good fortune to meet a gentleman who had served with the famed Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Being more familiar, now, with veterans, his modesty and humility seemed commonplace. But what really struck me was when we discussed how fame for Easy Company may be diminishing the sacrifices and great deeds of others from The Greatest Generation. Be they in the war, at home or after the war.

Grasping that I know so very little about my own family, contrasted by how much I know of a man I spoke with for two hours. For that reason, I write today of George and not the man I met at Baltimore Washington International.

Thank you for everything you did for us, George.