Honor those who died so others might live

He was recruited by the OSS (the American forerunner to the CIA) to organize and help direct the Danish resistance during World War II. His main qualification was that he spoke Danish fluently, as he was born of Danish immigrant parents, but he broke his ankle before he was able to jump out of the airplane over Denmark.

So the U.S. Army sent him to North Africa instead, where he was promptly wounded by shrapnel as he was walking out of the airplane. The Army subsequently sent him back to the United States to recover, and he served in several other campaigns in the South Pacific, eventually ended up Alaska.

Skagway, Alaska, to be precise, where he was part of the Army Communications Team maintaining the telegraph lines between Whitehorse and Skagway. That’s where he met and married my grandmother, and where my father was born. It’s also where his lifelong love of Alaska and all things Alaska was born.

Later on, he was a service member in Eastern Asia during the Korean War, a time he rarely discussed with anyone. He served in Europe when his children were little, where he was part of an Army Inspection Team.

My memories of him have become somewhat hazy as time as gone on. I remember a larger man, slightly bald but that might have been because he never wore his hair any other way than a very short crew cut. He had a loud, booming voice, and he loved a single whiskey and water after dinner, and feeding his grandchildren ice cream every single night after supper.

I remember, when I was very small, laughing up at his face, my chin dripping with chocolate, his arms firmly around my 4-year old body to keep me safe.

I remember when I was in kindergarten; I was hospitalized with pneumonia in Fairbanks during a time he and grandma were supposed to meet up with us at a fishing hole in Canada. I wasn’t expected to survive, and state troopers with his description pulled him over in his RV somewhere in the Yukon Territory, explained the horrible situation to them and they drove nonstop through Canada to make it to the hospital in time to see me. I made a full recovery, and still have the stuffed animal they gave to me when they visited.

I remember when I was 10, he bought a red and white striped flowered basket to match a new bicycle I’d gotten, and he spent over an hour fastening it just right to my bike.

My grandpa died when I was 11. His ashes were scattered in his favorite fishing hole in Canada; the same one we were suppose to meet them at those many years ago when I got ill. We spent many summers since then there, where he had relished the large lake trout and pike that just seem to jump into the boat.

His memory lingers in Alaska, too. Every single Memorial Day without fail, his widow, my 84-year-old grandmother, gets into her black Toyota Camry and drives the 40 miles from her house to the Fort Richardson Cemetery to lay a bouquet or a wreath on his tombstone.

Obviously, my grandfather was not harmed or killed in action during war. That was the original reason Memorial Day was started —to honor Union soldiers killed during the Civil War. After World War I, it was expanded to include any who died in military action.

Today, such a day is used to honor the multitudes who have served their country.

Tomorrow is Memorial Day.

Many will use it to host barbecues, drink a few beers, enjoy a picnic or family gatherings. My husband will use the day to remember the 53 soldiers who left with his 4/25th Brigade in 2006 and never made it home. He will mourn, as he does every day, all the soldiers who served with him over there and who were killed in action. He was close to several of them; there was one he had lunch with the day before he died; another one who died in a Humvee my husband had arranged for him to ride in. He carries their memories with him every day.

My father, who served two tours in Vietnam as a helicopter pilot and who was shot down five times, will use the day to quietly toast all of his comrades who never made it home — some who rest over there still. All of my dad’s roommates from flight school died in Vietnam; my dad alone made it home.

A fact that I also celebrate, as it allowed me to be here today, writing this column, while my husband is outside. I can hear our daughter giggling through an open window as her father is apparently chasing her around the yard, and I can hear the euphoric yelps of our son as he is apparently chasing Daddy and Baby Sister with a squirt gun.

I hear all this, and I know I, too, will be honoring all those who have served our country tomorrow, and especially saying a silent prayer of thanks, gratitude and sorrow, for all those who never made it home — yet made it possible for my own grandfather, father and husband to come home.

Thank you, wherever you are.

Thank you.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. She writes every Sunday about life at home as a wife and mother.