On March 10, 2009 I woke up, turned on my phone, and listened to my messages. I had landed at Reagan airport at 9pm the night before, returning from a weekend trip to Los Angeles. I don't remember exactly what I did after putting the phone down. There was a mix of shock and sadness, relief and stress--my favorite veteran had died in the early morning hours.
Reid Pierce Nelson served in Europe and Africa during World War II. He told me stories about the war--about the time he was a screamin' and a hollerin' to get his superior to brake, but the supervisor's truck flipped over the cable he had stretched across the road to free a vehicle from some mud; about the time he got lost in a sandstorm in Africa when he was trying to get back to his tent after using the bathroom; about war never being a good thing.
Reid Pierce Nelson was the first in his family to earn a master's degree, maybe even the first to go to college. My mom took us to Idaho once to see the rolling green hills where he went to school in Moscow, to see the white building where he and my grandma lived when they were first married, to see the little town where Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Mo were born. My mom taught us to be like Papa and get as much education as possible.
Reid Pierce Nelson worked for Arco, as a chemist on the coast of California. One day we sat on a bench outside the surrey shop in Morro Bay looking at the Rock and the water. He was excited I was working for ExxonMobil, excited one of his grandchildren wanted to talk to him about oil, excited to be spending time with the people he loved. Later that evening we probably played Spider Rummy. I sat there soaking it in, knowing that one morning I would get the call I got on March 10, 2009.
When I was younger Papa fell off the slide with me, pulled me and Doug in a blue cart through the trailer park in Pismo Beach, walked us through the alley from the house on Yukon Ave. to the 7-Eleven on the corner for slurpees. After he retired and through his seventies, he worked at Beverley's, the local fabric store, to stay busy. When he had his first stroke, he started using a cane. Partial paralysis left him unable to drive, but fiercely independent, he would still walk to the grocery store several blocks away. He survived cancer, chronic leukemia, pneumonia, strokes, heart attacks, falls, you name it. Papa was the ultimate come-back kid. So much so that doctors declared him dead in August 2008, and a few hours and many tears later I got a call with news he had started breathing on his own.
In those difficult months between August and March, Papa bounced between home and nursing home, his spirit wishing to do things his body would no longer permit. He used to call me regularly to read me the jokes from Reader's Digest. When he was in the nursing home I would call him to read him the jokes. In honor of Papa, and in honor of Veteran's Day, here is one of his personal classics.
Two Italians are standing on the coast looking out on the Atlantic. One says to the other: Is that a U boat? And the other replies: No that's not a my boat.
I love you Papa.
So, after talking to my mom, we think the joke is actually supposed to go like this: A German and an Italian are standing on the coast and the German says, "Is that a U boat?" and the Italian replies, "No, that's not a my boat." That's a little funnier.
ReplyDelete