I really did not expect to talk about this until much later in this vehicle.
I found a letter that my grandmother wrote to me with her trembling hand. It was dated February 18, 1970; it was addressed to the Fleet Post Office in San Francisco; and, it made me cry. I was in harms way when it was sent to me. It expressed concern, support, and love in spite of the circumstance. That circumstance was that our family is pacifist in its beliefs. At least that is the mythology in which we were raised. I was the first in uniform in at least ten decades. I served. I came home. Some of us died. “Buzzy” noted how strong my wife had to be. She knew herself from experiencing three generations of her family directly affected by war.
I found the letter tucked in a box of photos that I was rummaging through as I digitalize all the images of my life. There are a dozen stories to tell. I might tell them at another time. Not today. I knew she waited until she knew I was safely home so she could pass. She did within days of my visit in October 1970.