Mt. Pleasant Classical Academy

Book of Days post this evening reminded me of a story my Dad told last weekend. Military Kid and I were at his home Sunday morning, relaxing just a bit before we headed over to my sister’s home for brunch. I was still feeling full from the Birthday cakes and pies served the night before at my Dad’s 88th birthday party so we weren’t in a real rush to head over there. Somehow the conversation turned to trains and I asked the innocent question of whether my oldest sibling had the trains Dad had brought home with him from Germany after WWII. Growing up Dad never, ever spoke of THE WAR, and we kids were forbidden to ask questions about Dad’s role in WWII.

From little tidbits here and there I had learned over years that Dad was a medic in WWII, served in Europe, and traded his army issued cigarettes for goods he sent back home. A couple years ago ScienceKid had asked a question to Granddad about growing up during the depression. I was listening with one ear to my Dad’s story while my oldest sister chatted away. Suddenly she realized that Dad was telling a story about the Holocaust camps, something none of us had heard before and she looked at me with wide-open-eyes. Softly she said, “Listen. He’s talking about THE WAR.” He was sharing how his group entered this POW / Holocaust prison just after the Germans left, the people they met were nothing but skin and bones, the wonder he had that any were alive, and the piles and piles of dead people. His descriptions were more vivid and awful then any I had every read. It was easy to understand that years before he did not wish to talk about what he had witnessed. ScienceKid asked him about whether or not he every fired a gun in the war, but quickly learned that when the Red Cross was placed on Grand Dad’s arms the gun was removed, but still he was sent out into the battle zone to retrieve the injured men, or the dead men……

But this day Dad shared a fun story. Dad had won his platoon’s ping-pong championship (or Table Tennis for some). This earned him time off to go to his Army’s Division ping-pong tournament where he came in second place! He lost to the guy who claimed to be California’s Ping-Pong Champion. His prize, as the second place winner, was a train set. Growing up this train set was always assembled for the Christmas season, and Dad had given it to his oldest child, hoping that she would continue to the tradition. Unfortunately she has never done that and he is worried that she is more interested in selling it as an antique after he is gone. I hope not. But I will remember the spark in his eyes as he told the story, the spark of remembering a time in his life when he moved quickly, when his reflexes were quick, and he could slam that little white ball down where his opponent couldn’t get it.

And I’m glad he shared this story. It helps me to understand why we always had a ping-pong table in our home. I just wish he had shared the story sooner when it might have helped motivate us to play the game to try to beat the champion. For now though, I’m going to tell my kids all the stories I can think of, so they can know me and folks I want them to know too.