War and Peace

As I type, it happened seventy-eight years ago today. My Dad and a bunch of his friends decided they’d hit the beach. It was a beach along the coast of Normandy, France. You may have heard of it. Dad simply wouldn’t talk about it.

Actually, he did. Once. When I was very young. But I didn’t listen. Not “really” listen. I thought I already knew a lot about war. After all, I had probably already read more books in my life about war than had Dad. I’m not sure he ever ready any. So how could he possibly know more than me?

I suppose that is the lot of all who are young in this world - we think we know more than we do.

Then along comes Father Time to teach us differently.

I was in my early thirties when Dad died. Not long thereafter, ‘Saving Private Ryan’ (the movie), came out. Only a few minutes into watching the opening scene when the American soldiers charge onto the beach at Normandy (running headlong into a hail of pure hell), I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. I had to leave the theater. I just wanted to give Dad a hug and thank him.

It was then that I knew that I knew nothing about war.