I can't believe I haven't blogged in almost a week. It's just been crazy here at work. I'm so tired... I have tomorrow off for Veteran's Day, thankfully. I have 19 minutes until the Planning Board meeting so I'll write something now. Not much to tell about the personal life, really or rather I'm too tired to think of it all. I have something more important to say anyway.
I wanted to post pictures of my two grandfathers, both of whom served in World War II. I didn't get to, so I'll just write some homage to them.
Granddaddy Jesse Quentin Lowe was held as a POW in the country of Romania for several months. I never learned many details but I know it was horrible. He was awarded a Purple Heart for bravery in addition to other medals. He came home to live the rest of his life with my grandmother and their children - Sandy, Sherry, Gay, Melody, Kim, and their only son Dow.
The only time I saw my grandfather cry was when Dow died in his thirties. I will never forget that image of this tall, strong and gentle man, crouching in the cemetery with his face buried in his hands. The man who survived torture and near starvation was broken down by the loss of his only son.
As I got older I began to hear tales of when he drank and how violent he could be. But us grandkids only knew him as a gentle giant who grew his own fruits and vegetables and built beautiful wood crafts with his large but so soft hands. He loved to sit by the fire place and smoke while fresh peanuts roasted on the hearth. No matter what time of night we arrived for a visit, he got out of bed and came to hug us. That is how I will always remember him, in his white a-shirt and striped pajama pants. Tall and smiling with sunburned cheeks. He always had enough love for all of us: me, Paula, Sarah, Lydia, Thad, Emily, Ben, Moriah, Erin, Amber, Rosanna, Joe, Jesse and Suzannah.
He died my junior year of high school after a stroke, and we had him cremated. At the funeral we had a picture of him when he was young, a vase of roses (his favorite flower) and his folded flag with the medals. We sang his favorite hymns (In the Garden) and cried and laughed. The floor was littered with Kleenex, the pew where the grandkids sit held empty Kleenex boxes.
I still miss him.
I never knew my paternal Granddaddy Paul Spencer. He died the year I was born but my older sister was very close to him. She inherited his red hair and his name (Paula). He was a tall and lanky farmer who grew sweet potatoes and had a crinkly grin. He stopped buying Coca-Cola when the price went up to 6 cents a bottle. He made sure my daddy got a good education. He picked up a gun off a dead Japanese soldier in the Pacific and brought it home, in addition to pictures of the natives there - most of whom were naked! He went out three times a day to take care of the livestock and once a week to take his sweet potatoes out to sell to the merchants.
Two more men who did what men do in that time, who risked their lives and lived with the memories of what they went through and what they saw over there. I also wish to salute my two grandmothers, who let them go to do that and loved them through the duration, and afterwards as they healed from those invisible wounds that only our veterans know.
I thank them, and I thank all of you out there who also served your time or are currently serving so that I can be in America and live this rich life that I have. May God protect and bless you, and I swear that I can see my grandfathers beaming up in Heaven right this minute.
Happy Veteran's Day to you all.
