I finally called my Grandpa Willy this morning. Time is tricky when trying to call long distance, and bless my mother for waking me up this morning! So I had some time to chat with good ole' Grandpa Willy. He has been in an assisted living facility for some time now (almost a year) and its just not the same without hearing some of his stories every now and again. I savor every second talking to that man because he is a huge key to my childhood and an amazing key hole into the past.
This morning he answered the phone as if we've spoken everyday since I left. His nonchalance chipperness is sentimental and warming. We both say 'Hello, How are you', at the same time and I ask how life is treating him. He sounds winded a bit and explains that he just got home. My Uncle Bill had just drug him around town, took him to "the" house (his house, that sits empty on water street that was once filled with his family and then his family's families and the setting for more holidays than I can remember.) But he got tired and just
had to come back. He told me he was just laying in his chair.
I can see his soft balding head reclining on the heavy textile covering his recliner, both arms resting perfectly on both arm rests, hands fidgeting now and again, his suspenders clipped to his jeans laying over his grandpa belly and his skinny wee legs, who have done their darndest to get him through the last 82 years, supported and relaxing, stretched out in front of him. He may or may not be wearing his romeo shoes, perhaps some slippers but definitely some white tube socks. My guess is, its time to watch COPS. He loves that show. But I am grateful for his attention for a minute to discuss just a few moments of current events followed by old stories of the war, repeated at least once.
He tells me people are starting to call him a Hippie because his hair is getting so long. For a retired Barber - this is bad news. He says my Uncle Bill will take him to get it cut on Thursday. His intonation during this conversation is rascally. He gets a little wound up about being called a hippie but all in good spirit. I ask how his new home is treating him and he tells me "(Eve?), does a good job running the place", as if Eve and I were old high school friends. He says the kids come to visit which he really likes and I'm glad he isn't left alone too long.
When I begin to mention Japan that's when the war stories start.
"Things sure are different out here in Japan, Grandpa", I tell him. "Oh I bet they sure are. I remember when I was stationed in China I had a man fly in from Japan, and he came in asking for oil, water and ... and... dang it I can't remember the third thing, he wanted three things, but I sure found all 3 of them for him so he could get back to Japan."
"He had one of those big planes that could make the jump, we had to fly up the valley. We only had 1,000 horses, and his plane had 1,800."
"But my plane sure was dependable. Some guys were always bringing their planes in fixing the engines, needing new parts."
"I remember taking in a bunch of Japanese prisoners of war". He says this with as much intonation as everything else he has says.
"Wait, what?" I ask. I lean closer to the key hole to get a better look of what is going on inside.
"A bunch of them Japanese wanted to surrender, so we took em back to the camp, had them set up their camps and whatnot. We took all their firearms and cameras. Boy there were piles of them cameras and samurai swords and firearms. Them people from the newspaper sure were upset, those were great cameras. Those Japanese do know how to make great cameras...and, oh.. Willy find it... Binoculars, they had some great binoculars!"
"Then we took them up and put them in box cars, made them stand up and sent them back to the ships that would take them back to Japan." "Like on a train? You made them get in a train box car?" I asked. "Ya, the ones that came up waist high. We put them in the closed ones and people would be pooping in there. So with a half one they could lean their butts over and poop."
And as he is explaining all of this my mind is attempting to comprehend that reality. To put people onto a box car and to deal with their humanity from a soldiers perspective. To fly a plane and put your life at risk every moment. To learn about new cultures through the possessions you have confiscated from the very people trying to harm you. And the whole process of surrendering...in war. This is such a vivid vision of his life in the war, especially for 7:30 in the morning, but my heart is filled with my grandfather's voice.
I mention that I got a new batch of kids at school and they are a lot of fun to teach. He chimes in with, "Ah that is what your Uncle Bill and Aunt Martha did, teaching kids in foreign countries." This is something we have all known for about the last 20 years. Both my Aunt and Uncle are now retired.
"That's right" I add. "I am going to try to make it down to Okinawa to see it before I come home," "That's where your Uncle Bill and Aunt Martha used to live" he interjects. I follow with, "ya, I want to see where they lived before I come home."
"Well soon you'll get some time off to travel." he adds.
Shortly after we both drift into the second rendition of the first story he tells me of the war. "I remember when I was stationed in China I had a man fly in from Japan, and he came in asking for oil, water and ... and... dang it I just can't remember the third thing, he wanted three things, but I sure found all 3 of them for him so he could get back to Japan." I wonder if it matters to him whether I listen or not, it doesn't appear to, but I do all the same because sharing these stories between us is my gift from him. "That's good Grandpa, I bet you did."
Every once in a while I will say something and his response seems genuine and intrigued and I am happily surprised for his presence. I told him I was going to be car-less when I get home, but I will figure out how to come visit him. He sympathized by explaining, "You will have time to go through and pick out the right one for you. Just make sure you talk them down. (The way they price those cars) they think they're made of GOLD!". I smiled from ear to ear. He is a clever man.
I responded with, (when shopping for a car) "you don't take No for an answer", he laughed from his belly, "that's right" he said.
These are the conversations that are like
gold to me.
Every time I talk to him I realize more and more how precious this life is. We only live it once and all too soon we will be faced with the reality of old age. I think about his life and how I often forget that this grandpa who lived in Silverton, Oregon for 60 years used to fly planes from China over Asia, dropping bombs and avoiding bullets. How he traveled across the United States in his childhood and survived the depression, dropping out of 6th grade to get a job to buy food for his family. He is just one person, like any other, but there is one thing very special about him, he is my Grandpa Willy.
