The Last Of The World War II Generation

At my mother’s funeral  I found myself grieving not only her passing but the passing of her generation—those with whom she grew up, talked, experienced history. She was 91, born in 1920. I was brought up on stories of the Great Depression and my dad’s service to the country. My mom still used her cookbook based on rationing during World War II, when we were growing up. 

Nine hundred WWII veterans die every day. At the end of the war there were 16 million veterans in the U.S. Today there are about 2 million veterans of that war. Soon there will be none.   Who will remember their sacrifices, celebrate their lives, and appreciate the amazing changes they witnessed? My children and grandchildren are focused on the present and future.   As my mother was dying, I felt compelled to tell my granddaughters that their great grandma didn’t have an indoor bathroom. She used an outhouse or chamber pot for the toilet and bathed in a metal tub in water heated on the stove that had already been used by other family members. And although she didn’t have television or a computer, a DVD or electronic games, she went to movies several times a week when my dad was away in the service.   They were not impressed. It took me many years to appreciate my parents’ achievements, too. Maybe it’s a lot of romantic BS in a time of 21st century economic devastation and more seemingly endless wars, but I don’t want the sacrifices of my parents’ generation to be forgotten.   One day I will tell the girls about how my mom didn’t get to live with her new husband for four years. They got married just before he was drafted and sent away for training. Because he had some college, he was stationed at Chanute Field in Illinois, near his home, and was able to hitch rides back on his weekends off, but most of the time mom did not have her own place so they had little privacy. Then he was shipped to the South Pacific. Their daily letters between the last half of 1941 and the end of 1945 detail their long-distance relationship. Their correspondence helped them get to know each other better before they actually lived together.    Would my grandchildren be half as moved as I if they read the letters, which I intend to remount in archival quality albums? (I can’t risk them ripping one of them or I would show the originals to them now.) One of the girls wasn’t even born when my dad died and two of them never saw how my mom and dad looked at each other with such appreciation for everything they survived in their 65 years of marriage. The 12-year-old, who held my mother’s hand during her last few days of labored breathing, may understand their wartime romance (once daydreams of Justin Bieber burn out).    My sons are interested in their grandpa’s service to his country, but can they appreciate those who also served by staying at home working and waiting, keeping up a positive outlook during year after year of war?   Listen to the stories of your parents. The tales they now tell--over and over so often you think you are going to scream or pass out from boredom--are the ones you will miss the most.    Film them, record them, save their memories. If and when the last boomer parents reach the point where they are living in the past due to dementia, they will be welcome life preservers for long conversations in a sea of confusion. And then it will be our turn to decide what to pass on.    Judy Kirkwood writes regularly for thirdage.com