I’m often asked why I write about the American Revolution. A big part of the reason goes back to my grandpa. Grandpa served in the South Pacific during World War II. He was 26-years-old, married, a father to three toddler-aged girls, and a welder by trade when he entered the navy after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Years later, I spent many hours at his dining room table listening to stories about this time in his life. It was crazy hard for him to be away from his young family, to wonder if he’d ever return home. He learned to play one mean game of checkers during long hours aboard his ship. Side note: I never beat him in over a hundred games, so we finally switched to cribbage. For one of my birthdays, he carved a cribbage board for me, which I treasure.
Through hearing about those war years, the incredible heat in the engine room where he was assigned, the fear and dedication of those sailors, I learned to have enormous respect for the sacrifices that were made to give me the freedom I enjoy as an American. I hope to never take that for granted and to share some of America’s history with future generations, as my grandpa shared history with me.
