For years, our kids made it their tradition to call my dad on Veterans’ Day and Memorial Day. Dad was a World War II veteran. When he was 18 he became a Marine and shipped out to the South Pacific. He survived five assault landings, each time in the first wave of Marines hitting the beaches.
When Kathryn, our oldest, was old enough to understand what veterans were, and could somewhat grasp the idea of sacrifice for one’s country, she was eager to hear that her grandpa was a veteran.
“But Grandpa Chris is blind,” she’d said at the time, questioning how it could be that he could have fought in a war.
I had reminded her that he hadn’t always been blind.
She was fascinated to hear that he had been in World War II. Fascinated with every bit of information I was able to give her. She was also reverent.
“He could’a died,” she’d realized aloud.
Yes, he could have. I said that he had known plenty of other young soldiers who had died in the war.
She’d been silent for a few seconds, processing this new information.
“Can I call Grandpa later tonight and thank him for fighting in the war, so we could be free?” she asked.
And that phone call began a tradition in our family. A tradition repeated twice a year, on every Veterans’ Day and every Memorial Day. Every year. For the rest of my dad’s life.
“My grandpa fought in World War II.”
“My grandpa was a Marine.”
“He was just a teenager when he was in the war.”
“He could’a died. A lot of his friends died in the war.”
On what was to be Dad’s last Veterans’ Day, we had forgotten to call. After dinner, I was busy doing science homework with 11-year-old Anna. Kathryn, 14, was in the living room working on homework. Geoff was finishing some work at the computer. Ben, 9, and Martha and Emma, both 7, were playing a game on the living room floor.
“Oh shoot!” Kathryn exclaimed. “We forgot to call Grandpa Chris.”
I checked the time and said that I didn’t think it was too late to call.
“I wanna talk to him, too,” said Ben.
“Me too,” chorused Martha and Emma.
I said that they could all say something to him. To which Kathryn argued that the twins didn’t even understand what they were thanking him for.
“Uh-huh,” they defended.
“We’re thanking him for bein’ in the war,” Emma announced proudly.
I repeated that each one of them could have a moment on the phone to thank Grandpa. Then, while Kathryn dialed the number, I practiced with the little girls for just a second.
“What is it again?” Martha asked.
Marthy has a language delay, which was first diagnosed when she was 18 months old. She does really well with it, and has developed some strategies to help her remember things which come easily for most of us but don’t come easily at all for her.
I repeated to her that this was Veterans’ Day. She repeated the words ‘Veterans’ Day.’
“Can I just say, ‘Happy Vet-er-ans’ Day, Grandpa’?” she asked.
“That’d be perfect,” I reassured her.
Kathryn was talking to Dad on the phone by then. She told him that she’d almost forgotten to call him. They visited for a few minutes. Then she said that the other kids each wanted to talk, too. With that she passed the phone down to Anna.
Anna said hi and wished Dad a happy Veterans’ Day. She thanked him for serving in the war. Then she talked for a moment about the science unit she was working on before passing the phone down to Ben.
Ben said, “Hi Grandpa, happy Veterans’ Day.” Then he visited for a minute or two, asking questions about the war, and what it was like for Grandpa to be shot at. “Did you actually ever kill anybody, Grandpa?” Then he, too, passed the phone down. This time to Emma.
Emma took the phone, and in a self-conscious voice greeted Grandpa under the watchful eyes of her older siblings. She thanked him for fighting in the war. “I’m glad you didn’t get killed over there, Grandpa.” Dad probably said that he was glad about that, too. She smiled, anyway. And handed the phone down the line to Martha.
Marthy cupped the phone in her hand and turned to me. “What do I say again?” she whispered loudly.
I reminded that it was Veterans’ Day. Vet-er-ans’ Day. I said it slowly, breaking it down into syllables to help her remember how to repeat it. Vet-er-ans-Day. This was important to her. She wanted to do it right. She nodded to me, smiling confidently. She had it now.
“Hi Grandpa,” she said, smiling as she spoke. He asked her a question and she nodded, still smiling. Then she said, “Happy,” and paused.
I could tell by the look on her face that she’d gone blank. She searched for the words, looking at me for prompting. Her siblings by now were less than patient, all loudly whispering different things for her to say. Any one of which would have been fine, but all coming at the same time, only added to her confusion.
“Happy…” she repeated, desperately searching her memory again for that new word. Then, finally, she blurted the rest of it.
“St. Patrick’s Day, Grandpa!”
The other kids groaned. She looked at me. Worried. Had she just messed up again? This one had been so important to her. I smiled and nodded. With relief, she visited on the phone for a few minutes, while Geoff and I admonished her siblings not to say a word about it. That she had done just fine.
Marthy finished visiting with Grandpa and handed the phone to me. I could hear both of my parents on the line, chuckling.
“Yeah, so we just wanted to call and wish you happy St. Patrick’s Day, Dad,” I said.
We chuckled together for a second. They both said that the phone call had meant a lot to them. Then Dad said that Marthy’s greeting was “priceless.” One of the best Veterans’ Day greetings he’d ever had, he said.
And of course none of us knew that night that it would be the last time our kids would call Grandpa Chris on Veterans’ Day, or Memorial Day. Or St. Patrick’s Day. And maybe because it ended up being the last time, it has also become my most memorable Veteran’s Day phone call.
So on that note, happy St. Patrick’s Day, Dad. And thank you for your selfless service to our country.
And Marthy, I know it’s been a struggle for you. But your language delay has actually enriched all of our lives. With love, Mom.
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