My Father’s Silent War

My father never talked about the war.  Even when we went to a commemorative event in France where he had been stationed in 1944, just north of Paris.  An event with all the pomp and circumstance of town bands, bunting, an exhibition in the local church created by school children, including models of the Martin Marauders my father had flown, a mayor’s speech and champagne reception, military brass, the American Embassy attache, and an outdoor luncheon.  Even when we stood on the A-71 airfield, seemingly abandoned, still in the countryside, where his planes had taken off and landed.  Even as we looked around, with the handful of other American Veterans, trying to figure out where the commissary and their tents had been, the tents they’d lived in through the...

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A Modest Life

I recently wrote an essay for Caroline Leavitt’s blog.  Caroline is one of my favorite authors and one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. She is absolutely unstinting in her kindness and support for other authors.  I learn something from her every time we are in contact. This essay is about my dad. Who I think about every single day. It is amazing to see how he continues to influence and inspire me, in the most profound and modest ways. Here’s how it begins: “My father was an exceptionally modest man. Born in 1917, the third youngest of thirteen children, he was a wonderful listener and rarely talked about himself.  His highest form of praise was to call someone a true gentleman; he revered the old-fashioned attributes of grace,...

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