 |
| August 14, 2007 |
|
 |
Ignoring Clint Eastwood's advice in "Dirty Harry"
that opinions, like certain body parts, are best kept to yourself.
V-J Day August 14, 1945
It was August 14th, 1945, I was not quite 2 years old, living with my
Mom and grandparents in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. If anyone thinks a baby
doesn't know what is going on, based on what happened to me, I've got news for
them. They can't communicate very well, a kid that age doesn't talk much, but
they understand what you are saying, and take it all in.
I was in my
grandparent's living room, a photo of my dad in his army uniform was on the end
table by the lamp. My mother talked about that photo often, telling me "that
was daddy, and someday he would come home from the war". Exactly where
my dad was, who he was, and what he was doing, was a mystery to me, but what
happened on August 14, 1945 was so spectacular that it burned into my long-term
memory, and thinking about it now, it seems like yesterday.
It
was the middle of the day, we'd had lunch, I'd had my nap, and was doing what
babies do, hanging-out. Suddenly, a siren went-off, then another, and another,
and church bells started to chime. The phone rang, my grandmother rushed into
the room to answer it, and got all excited. All heck was breaking loose.
Gramma hung-up the phone, picked me up, and said "The war is over,
your daddy's coming home! " I remember she was crying. It seemed like
just a few minutes later, my 16 year old twin aunts, who worked at the bakery
down the street, came home in their white uniforms, my mother arrived about the
same time, and there was a lot of hugging, kissing, and crying, with me in the
middle.
Here I was, listening to everything, understanding most every
word, not every meaning, but I did know something big was happening. While I'm
sorting all of this out, my grandfather came home. More hugging, kissing, and
crying. Grampa said, "I'll be back in a little while", and
left. He came home later, maybe an hour in baby-time, carrying two shopping
bags. One was filled with fireworks ( Sioux Falls had lots of fireworks ) and
the other was full of booze. My Grampa was 100% Irish, and even at my tender
age, I'd already learned to recognize booze when I saw it.
 The
phone rang all afternoon into the evening, as friends and relatives called to
share the good news. All the time this was going on, sirens and horns continued
to sound. People came and went from the house, and Grampa and his friends
toasted the occasion until, as I realized later in life, they got completely
smashed.
After dark, everyone sat out on the front lawn and fired-off
roman candles, sky rockets and aerial bombs. The whole town must have gone with
Grampa to get fireworks, I remember every house on both sides of the street had
people outside doing what we were doing. The sky was filled with explosions,
noises, and colorful lights, the horns and sirens never stopped, and no
fireworks display since has ever come close to what I saw that night.
Global
Air Aviation Referral Service
I welcome intelligent responses, and will
be glad to post them here. Anonymous responses that are profane, or add nothing
to the subject being discussed, will not be posted. Email your remarks to
ron@global-air.com | |
It seems to me that the earliest memories that your brain selects for you
to carry forward throughout your whole life, are mostly the things that made an
indelible impression on your little unformed mind.
At five years of
age I knew that my father owned a very neat gun. I was later to learn it was a
Colt 45 caliber automatic, circa 1913, that he had brought home from the Great
War in 1918.
I was aware that this known but undiscussed, really,
really neat weapon resided in the under stair closet, far up in a nook, at a
much greater altitude than my 3 foot self could ever hope to attain. I also knew
that it never came out to be admired, which I would have been happy to do,
discussed, or heaven forbid, to be used.
VJ day will forever be identified in my mind with the image of my
father, standing in the front yard of our home, the green of a summertime Tygart
River sparkling in the background, blasting the heavens with the seldom seen
automatic Colt, ripping through a magazine of 1920 ammunition as fast as he
could pull the trigger. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I knew it had to be
good and I liked it.
My mother and dad explained to me that the War
was over, and that my brother could come home now. I thought that was a good
thing, because he would no doubt bring me a present. Besides, they said, there
was a parade in Clarksburg tonight, and we would go. I wasn't sure what a parade
was, but just the way they announced it made it seem like something fun.
The three of us piled into our 1933 Chrysler, with the chrome headlights the
size of watermelon mounted on it's swooping fenders, and I was allowed to blast
the car's horn at every passing car and every single person we saw along the
way. This was unprecedented and I wondered if this was a new travel policy or
just a one time thing.
In Clarksburg I watched a parade of vehicles
that included practically everything that had escaped the wartime recyclers and
could still roll. I saw adults behaving like children and children, myself
included, watching open mouthed, as out minds recorded this exceptional time
that would never be repeated.
I recall being very tired and being
carried back to the Chrysler for the trip home to Arden. There was the sensation
of the big car moving through the night, while I reclined on the back seat. I
felt I was in a fortress, where no harm could ever come to me, or to the ones I
loved. I wished we could keep moving forever. I wished nothing would ever
change.
Steve W. - West Virginia
| |
|
Most
Recent Editorial
There are
visitors
online
right now.
Recent
Global
Air Links:
|
