Remembering Veterans...

Ten years ago I wrote a monthly newspaper column for the late, lamented Wasatch County Courier. I didn’t get paid much for doing it, but I had a lot of fun. The main focus of my newspaper column was history, especially Wasatch County history.

Today I'm posting a column I wrote for the Courier back in 1999. I always liked this column, because it dealt with two things near and dear to my heart: family and patriotism. Bear in mind that it was originally published the week before Christmas in 1999, so add ten years (now eighteen years) to any historical references. I’m posting it here today because it also applies to Veterans Day. This article may not contain the greatest writing in the world, but it came from the heart:

Joe Thacker and friend

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" has always been one of my favorite Christmas songs. Bing Crosby recorded it back in the 1943, at the height of World War II. “White Christmas” was more popular, but for my money, nothing can beat the emotional resonance of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” I’ve often wondered what that song meant to the Heber Valley men and women fighting in the second World War, and to the families they left behind. I can’t really know, because I wasn’t there. I can only imagine how poignant Bing Crosby’s song was for those people during that terrible time.

I also recently reread the book Citizen Soldiers by Stephen Ambrose. Citizen Soldiers is a history of World War II from D-Day to VE Day, told by GI’s who were there. I highly recommend this book. Ambrose’s tale of the Battle of the Bulge, which was fought the week before Christmas 1944, inspired me to talk to a relative who participated in World War II. I asked my uncle, Joe Thacker, about his war experiences. Uncle Joe spent three Christmases in the service of his country.

My uncle Joe Thacker is the son of Ray and Mima Thacker. He grew up in Charleston, along with his three brothers, Dale, Vern, and Dan, and his three sisters, ReNee, Vera, and Marva. All four of Ray and Mima’s sons served in World War II. Dale was in the Navy in the North Atlantic. Vern served in the Navy in the Pacific. Dan trained for the invasion of Japan in Oregon.

Uncle Joe served for three years as an army engineer. During Christmas 1943, Uncle Joe was in Louisiana completing basic training. He spent Christmas 1944 on the island of Leyte, in the Philippines. Uncle Joe was part of the Philippine invasion force, and has some amazing and scary stories to tell about that battle. On Christmas Day 1945, after the war ended, Uncle Joe was on a boat headed for home. That was probably the best Christmas of all.

Uncle Joe’s memories of the Christmases he spent during the war are bittersweet. He remembers the camaraderie he felt with his fellow soldiers. Their loyalty to one another and the devotion to duty they felt got them through the homesickness and the rough times. They supported one another. Uncle Joe said that remembering the real meaning of Christmas, the birth of the Savior, also helped ease the pain of being away from loved ones at home.

Uncle Joe commented that, although it was difficult to be away from home at Christmas, it was harder on the folks left behind. My Grandmother Thacker briefly kept a journal during the early months of 1944. Each entry details how lonesome she was and how miserable and cold the weather was. Receiving a letter from one of her sons serving in the military gave Grandma a lot of happiness. She missed her sons and worried about them every minute of the day.

Grandma Thacker wasn’t the only one who missed loved ones during World War II. Millions of Americans sacrificed time away from their families to secure the freedoms we enjoy today. Some even gave their lives so that we Americans could continue to live the way we choose. The next time we sing a Christmas carol, especially “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” let's remember the sacrifices the men and women who serve our country have made to protect our freedoms.

“. . . when they built you brother, they broke the mold.”

Phil meets Susan for the first time, April 2000.

The line in the title is from “Terry’s Song” by Bruce Springsteen. I can never listen to that song without thinking of my brother Phil.

Three years ago today (March 15, 2006), my dad called me to tell me that Phil had died. Lisa and I drove from Eagle Mountain to Salt Lake in a snowstorm to handle the arrangements. I try not to dwell too much on sad anniversaries, but with Dad’s death two months ago, Dad, Mom, and Phil have been on my mind. It’s hard to lose a parent, but neither of my parents’ deaths affected me the way Phil’s death did. Before Mom died, she had been sick for a couple of years and was confined to a wheelchair. Mom was ready to go. Dad missed Mom for the next eleven years. When he died in January, I knew I would miss him, but I also believed Dad was where he wanted to be: with Mom. I don’t have any regrets about either of my parents; I was there for them when they needed me.

I wish I could say the same about Phil. Phil and I were only fourteen months apart in age; we spent most of the time between the years 1965 and 1983 together. Phil and I were best friends when we weren’t trying to beat the hell out of each other, but anyone else who tried to mess with us had better look out. We were brothers.

The last twenty years of Phil’s life were miserable, with intermittent bright spots. Phil was forty years old when he died. He was working as a police officer with West Valley P.D. He wasn’t a perfect officer, but Phil loved his job. He loved dealing with people, even when they were skells. Phil liked the people he met in the course of his job: the good, decent fellow cops whom he respected, the lady who owned the hamburger joint where he worked security, the little kids he was able to help. Phil didn’t like the cops he worked with who he considered phonies or posers, and he didn’t like people who abused their spouses or their children.

Most important to me, Phil loved my daughters, and they loved him. Phil is holding my oldest in the picture I posted above. I wish he could have spent more time with them. I said in Phil’s eulogy that my kids were lucky to have a guardian angel who was a cop, and I meant it.

March 18, 2006

Phil’s death wasn’t suicide, but I wouldn’t exactly call it an accident either (actually - to be charitable - I would call it involuntary manslaughter.) After three years I am used to him being gone, but I haven’t made peace with it, although I am trying. I still think about Phil nearly every day, and I wonder if I could have made a bigger difference in his life, especially near the end. I really don’t know what I would have done differently; you can’t live a person’s life for him. For better or worse, people have their free agency. I did make sure that Phil had a decent funeral, and that he was respectfully laid to rest.

I wish Phil could have seen himself the way other people saw him. The greatest tragedy of Phil’s life is that he didn’t really understand how much people loved him. He based his opinion of himself on someone who didn’t deserve that trust.

Another song, “Before They Make Me Run,” by the Rolling Stones, also reminds me of Phil. In that song Keith Richards - Phil's favorite Stone - sings, “Gonna find my way to heaven, `cause I did my time in hell.” That line could have been Phil’s epitaph. I hope Phil did find his way to heaven, because he deserved it. Phil was a good guy. He had his faults, but the good in him far outweighed the bad, and I don’t think he ever quit trying.

In the end, what else matters?