Sometimes it is okay to remember those who fought the fight but came back home. As I know of no one on any sides of my family who died while serving their country, today I am remembering those that survived.
Over the weekend I found my paternal grandfather’s draft registration. Not in my collection of family ephemera, but on the World Wide Web. I actually found it several years ago, but I did not stop to read it. This time I noticed that JAC was 33 years old when he registered on September 12, 1918. As I know that WWI ended on November 11, 1918, I then searched the Internet to discover why he had signed up so late in the war. Simple answer was that my grandad (a young farmer and father of six children😳) was drafted. September 12 was the final date of the draft for all American men from age 18-45. If he had not registered, he would have been labeled a “slacker” and perhaps even detained.
Now the question is: What did my grandfather do after this? As far as I know, nothing. Five years later my own father was born as child number nine. And my dad and several brothers served our military services during WWII, but they all survived.
That is why today I remember not only those who gave their lives for our country, but I also cherish the lives of those that came back alive.
