During the beginning of Desert Storm, my television was dark and silent. The same was true when the U.S. went into Afghanistan and Iraq. I tried to watch, but I couldn't. There were, and still are, so many scenes of families being parted and the memories those scenes bring back are too painful to bear.
At the beginning of World War II, my father was in his mid-30s and married with two children, but it was his occupation that kept him from being drafted. He was a farmer.
His brother, Bryan, wasn't as lucky. He got his notice just after high school graduation. My dad fretted, his concern a sorrowful thing to see. They weren't just close as brothers often are, despite the age difference, they doted on one another.
I remember when my uncle came home on leave after boot camp. He had orders to Germany. There were family get-togethers with big meals, lots of visiting, and laughter. All of it made me nervous, but it was the latter that held the most ominous clue. For a family that was quick to embrace fun and gaiety, this laughter was short, loud, and forced.
It was a warm fall day when my uncle dressed in his uniform and packed his bags. We were all standing outside at my grandparents' farm, waiting to give him a sendoff, and he went from one to the other of us saying goodbye.
When he reached my father, the last in line, they lurched toward one another and hugged. I was about six and, to this day, the horrible sound of their sobbing still echoes through my memory and brings tears to my eyes.
My uncle came home, safe and sound. He too became a farmer. He and his wife eventually had three children, and my parents added another one for a total of three.
And the two brothers continued to be exceptionally close.
Lookin' back, I should have known they wouldn't be content to be separated for long. My uncle died when he was fifty-one. My dad followed four weeks later.
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