For My Grandfather on Memorial Day

The men on my father's side of the family all seem to have had a child in their mid-forties. My father was 45 when my younger sister was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, and so on. So, imagine the chagrin of my little sister when she was in school and tried to explain, on Veteran's Day, that our grandfather had been a veteran of World War I. That's right, WWI, not WWII. Grandchildren of Vietnam Nam veterans stared at her in disbelief. But, they should have stared at her with respect for our grandfather.

Our grandfather was William Henry Siemering, the son of first generation German immigrants to America. During the long, bitter Minnesota winters, they were grievously homesick for Germany. They never fully grasped the English language, American culture, their new world. My grandfather grew up hearing marvelous stories about Hanover and its surrounding villages. He'd picture it all in his mind, and would daydream of the time when he would sail down the Rhine and walk through the breathtaking forests.

The reality was quite different from the dream. He first stepped on German soil as an enemy soldier, a teenage American who had enlisted early to fight for his country. As with many war heroes, he rarely spoke of what happened during battle. But, he was awarded the Purple Heart for being wounded while , running through enemy fire, he dragged a shot fellow soldier to safety. When the War was over and he returned, there was a different battle to be fought. Though few people realize this today, after WWI, there was tremendous anti-veteran sentiment to greet the returning soldiers. Signs in windows announced that they would not hire veterans.

Through the 1920's, my grandfather had an odd assortment of jobs. It was while he was an actor in the Chautauqua cicuit, often performing Shakespeare, that he met my grandmother. When the Depression hit, he took any work he could find, even selling dishes door to door. But, then he found his calling. The Veteran's Administration. He would say he never wanted another soldier to be treated the way he had been treated on his return home. And he worked for the rest of his life towards that goal. It was, of course, not just his work, but was his vocation.

There're several photos I love of my grandfather...his smile in his formal stage attire when photographed in the middle of a midwestern field in the 1920's; his haunted expression in the WWI military hospital, his dented metal helmet in his hand. But it's the one here that always makes me pause and remember him. And to remember him with one word: patriot.