Recently I stumbled on a forgotten family gem, personal histories from WWII written by two of my grandfather’s brothers. It was an opportunity to learn about uncles I barely knew and get personal insights into a defining event of the 20th century.
What struck me was how often the word “lucky” came up in their accounts. Certainly they both mentioned hardships, both personal and physical, but their gratitude for what they did have — especially in contrast to those who had it so much worse — was deeply moving.
They all spent most of the war in the service, a long time to be in a war and away from home, and yet they told their stories with acceptance and grace. Even their comments about the futility of arguing with the Army had a certain air of pragmatic resolve, rather than bitterness or even resignation. Those must have been long years not only for them, but for their wives and family as well.
Stoicism is a hallmark of my father’s family, and to my chagrin I did not inherit as much of it as I would like. I never forget I have been very lucky in life, but reading their stories inspires me to focus more on remembering the good more than the bad.