On a day like this

On June 2, 1917, my grandfather, Norman John Bonney, registered for the draft. I am looking at a picture of his draft card. He was 27 and he lived at 113 North St. in Medford Mass. It says he was born April 29, 1890 in Charlestown, Massachusetts. He had gray eyes and was tall and slender, with dark brown hair. He was married with a child 3 years old. That was my Uncle Paul, dead now 14 years. My mother and her sisters are dead too. But we live on, eight of their children and our descendants, because Grampa Bonney did not die in the Great War. I wonder if he was relieved? Or disappointed? He died before I was born, before my parents met, so I cannot ask my Dad, who is alive at 94, about him. Perhaps with unlimited resources and determination I could find someone (who was much younger) who knew him, perhaps only slightly. Maybe a young neighbor, the paper boy. Maybe someone who wanted to be a great bridge player, who admired him and took his classes on bridge. 

It is Memorial Day, the day to remember people who died in the war. People at my church yesterday suggested two other kinds of people to remember: people who died doing other kinds of service: firefighters, social workers, policemen; and people who fought for our country and didn't die. That would include my father-in-law, Raymond Paul Lynde, and my father, although his "fighting" was not as dangerous. I also think of the women left to care for the children and try to hold the family together without a Dad. Even after the Dad came back, he was perhaps hurt in a way that changed his family's life forever. 

On a day like this, when it was cool last night, but not too cool, I slept with the windows open and a quilt over me, cozy and comfortable. The only thing is, the birds and the light woke me before five. Early mornings, I am generally optimistic. I have a plan for today. It is reasonable and calm and relaxed. I will get things done, but take rests so my back doesn't give out. I will have fun and be pleasant. And yet, a little voice tells me, "It won't go that way. You will be in pain and you will be cross and other people won't behave perfectly." Some of the things I have read about pain, specifically back pain, suggest a sort of psychological training that basically teaches you to not be bothered by pain, to live with it. This is possibly preferable to large amounts of drugs or surgery, which is not alway effective. My mother lived with back pain, probably more than anyone knew. As I get older, I feel more and more that I want to emulate her. But, of course, I am my father's child as well. Here's to trying.