They had been married only a few years when he died at 33, of a cancer we easily cure today – leaving her with two small girls, one two, one four. The day was December 5, 1941. Life is strange. Without warning, she stepped up, learned to drive, became a teacher, and tried to look forward.
Two days later, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, killing 2400 Americans, launching a war that would kill 450,000 Americans and 85 million worldwide. He did not live to see it.
We live to see some things, other things we do not. Maybe it is just as well. A cheerful soul, he worked to finish Cornell in 1930, landed a job during the mid-market crash, and enjoyed writing columns.
By all reports, he thought himself lucky, married the love of his life, and adored his two girls. Those girls would grow up to become parents – and teachers, like their mother. They adored children, too.
Two years before he died, they were in New York. He likely heard Lou Gehrig’s famous speech on the radio on July 4, 1939. Gehrig, afflicted with ALS, the disease that bears his name, was just 35.
The “Iron Man” had played 2,130 consecutive games. Like his generation, he was tough, stoic. That day, he confessed to a “bad break,” but said: “Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth… have an awful lot to live for.” He died in June 1941, also missing Pearl Harbor.
Decades later, just a few years ago, one of the girls stumbled on a military commission, her father’s. Had he lived, he would have fought in WWII and might not have come home. He had volunteered ahead, been commissioned a reservist, then fallen ill and missed the war. Life is strange.
Pulling the “bottom line” forward, the older of these girls was my mother, and the young widow was my grandmother. Like the grandfather I never knew, I, too, like writing, revered my grandmother.
One day long ago, my grandmother asked me to get a shoebox from her closet. It was wrapped in faded ribbon, filled with letters. She took out one, asked me to read it aloud. I did. She took out another, asked me to read it. I did. Then, she asked I put the box away, never asked for it again.
Life is strange. The letters were from my grandfather to my grandmother, love letters talking about the future they had planned, one that did not come to pass. How many others of that generation had shoeboxes with letters, dreams they put aside – or lost – helping us get ahead.
We often think our world is THE world, our pain, loss, anxiety, opportunity, obligations, and lives are unique, but we are on a continuum, informed by the past, indebted to it, obligated to the future.
The shoulders on which we stand are broad; the WWII generation’s shoulders are very broad. They lived hard, taught us to step up, rarely complained, and loved deeply. We honor them by doing the same. This seems a good time to do that, remember, and step up.
Robert Charles is a former Assistant Secretary of State under Colin Powell, former Reagan and Bush 41 White House staffer, Maine attorney, ten-year naval intelligence officer (USNR), and 25-year businessman. He wrote “Narcotics and Terrorism” (2003), “Eagles and Evergreens” (North Country Press, 2018), and “Cherish America: Stories of Courage, Character, and Kindness” (Tower Publishing, 2024). He is the National Spokesman for AMAC. Today, he is running to be Maine’s next Governor (please visit BobbyforMaine.com to learn more)!
