Also in this collection of letters is an article about my great uncle Robert Polen, enlisted in the Air Corps; he endured a leg operation behind Russian lines without anesthesia. Pushed out of a burning plane with his parachute, he was mistaken for a German soldier and nearly shot by Russians-thankfully, one officer was convinced he was an American. He was only 20 years old at the time, and the youngest pilot to graduate from The Western Training Command. The article said Uncle Bob had the "highest regard" for the Russians who administered care to him.
Among Pop Pop's teachings were these: to love music and the arts, to be respectful and generous to others, to take chances, and to be relentless in pursuit of goals. I remember the first time I dove for a ball on his tennis court as a seven year old. I convinced my grandpa to continue hitting with me rather than tend to my skinned knees. I could see the creases on his face as he headed for his side of the court, and I knew he was smiling. I enjoyed friendly rivalry as much as he did. Maybe the child I was then somehow sensed the trials he'd overcome were greater than any I would see. I loved exploring his den to see the medals and memorabilia of years past; battles won, and comrades lost. He chose not to mentor his grandchildren by showing us the honors or physical rewards of hard work, but rather by the examples of it. These were his "little guideposts." Above all, I cherish and continue to learn most from his inclination for poetry, literature, and writing. I hope to someday read my way through his list of favorite poems and books. A page in his journal reports transporting five seriously injured men to the hospital ship near the shores of Normandy. The entry concludes, "I will never forget them." The account of D-Day details the weather, the sounds, the geography, his thoughts--my grandmother, the same day, June 6, 1944, penned the reaction at home as word was broadcast over the radio. Her household woke to the sound of church bells; the chimes played the National Anthem and "America" every hour. That day she wrote to him, "it is the first day since you have been gone that I have thought you will be back sooner." She was with us until I was six; my grandfather was here until I began college. Before making the trip home to Ohio on the morning of his memorial service, I sat outside my dormitory, on a stone ledge overlooking Hanna Hall where his post secondary studies also took place. The morning shadows kissed its architecture to create a scene worthy of a painting. So moved by what came over me, to describe the stillness and spiritual warmth of that moment, I can only say that it was surreal. I found the words of John G. C. Brainard's Epithalamium, appropriate for a last salute to my grandfather, and I dedicate it to those who are remembering our veterans this week. If you have stories to share, we'd love to hear them.| I saw two clouds at morning, | |
| Tinged with the rising sun; | |
| And in the dawn they floated on, | |
| And mingled into one: | |
| I thought that morning cloud was blest, | |
| It moved so sweetly to the west. | |
| I saw two summer currents, | |
| Flow smoothly to their meeting, | |
| And join their course, with silent force, | |
| In peace each other greeting: | |
| Calm was their course through banks of green, | |
| While dimpling eddies play'd between. | |
| Such be your gentle motion, | |
| Till life's last pulse shall beat; | |
| Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, | |
| Float on, in joy, to meet | |
| A calmer sea, where storms shall cease- | |
| A purer sky, where all is peace. |
