My recollections of my mom and dad are enriching, possibly a bit rose colored, but very enriching. They would be richer and more vivid if only I had listened more to them and about them, and whined less about what they wouldn't let me do. Growing up can be a strain, particularly with parents. As a teenager I found my parents old and square. In retrospect, I truly regret that I did not ask them more questions about their lives.

Especially my dad. A strong, silent, and handsome man. He was seemingly invincible, and oh so independent. When our house got too crowded, he would always find his way to the back porch to sit alone, quietly staring straight ahead. Not being rude, just being George. He was never very talkative. Maybe he just figured that he had seen so much in his life, if he ever started talking he would never be able to say all that he wanted. So he just never started. Unfortunately for my siblings and me, we never asked. We have a general picture of his life, but much of the detail is missing.

My father, George Goodwin, was born in 1906 in Trigg County, Kentucky. He was the seventh of eight cildren born to George Washington Goodwin and his second wife, Lila. George Washington Goodwin had six children from a previous marriage. They made their livelihood as tenant farmers, primariy growing tobacco. Life as tenant farmers in the eary 1900's was tough. In January, 1909, just prior to the birth of dad's youngest sister, George Washington Goodwin died of gunshot wounds he received during the Western Kentucky Tobacco Wars. At age three, my father was fatherless. Life got even tougher, and the family struggled to make ends meet. One of my father's chores was to get up early every morning and go hunting for the family breakfast. He became an expert marksman, a skill that would come in handy later in his life.

Life on the farm became unbearable, and in 1920 grandma moved the family to Alton, Illinois. Factories, and good paying jobs, beckoned. They rented a house just off Broadway on Lampert Street, close to the local factories. My father was fourteen. He lied and said he was sixteen and was hired at a local factory, a few years later he got a job at Laclede Steel where he worked until his retirement in 1962.

In 1925 my dad married Muriell Adams. They had met at church and were both nineteen years old. She died in 1926 a few weeks after the birth of their daughter, Viola. They had been married slightly less than one year.

In 1927 he met my mother, Mary Ellen Stone. They were married in August 1928. Their first child, George Raymond, was born in August 1929. From 1929 through about 1935, due to the depression following the crash of the stock market, my dad only worked part- time. Making ends meet was tough, and the family would move about every six months. Maybe trying to outrun the bill collectors.

Their second child, James Eldon, was born July 9th, 1931. He lived only 15 months, dying in October of pneumonia. His small, white coffin was brought into the living room for the visitation, a common occurrence in those days.

On May 25th, 1936, my mother gave birth to triplets, two were stillborn. The third, Mary Lois, lived. Unfortunately, she only lived seven months, dying of pneumonia in December.

In November, 1940, my brother Ron was born, and in March, 1942, my sister Jo Ann was born. They were both healthy and continue to live healthy, adult lives.

My father had survived the death of his father, the depression, and the death of his own children. Enough already!

Well, not quite. In 1943, at the age of 37, my father was drafted into the Army. He left behind his wife and four children. His marksmanship landed him in the infantry, and after basic training and a furlough, he was shipped directly to France as part of the 8th Division, 28th Infantry Regiment.

His war experiences, to me, are unimaginable. Marching across France en-route to Germany, for your, and my, freedom. Adolph Hitler and Germany had to be defeated, or every core American value was at risk. Like-minded men and women were at war in Japan, seeking to stop Japan from imposing their will on the rest of the world.

My father's experiences were commonplace to World War II soldiers in the infantry. My father's wartime experiences included the bloody Battle of the Hurtgen Forest, and the equally horrific Battle of the Bulge. Living in foxholes, almost daily seeing comrades killed in action only a few feet away. Returning to his foxhole to find dead soldiers. Digging his foxhole deeper after each battle. If all that wasn't bad enough, much of his war experiences were in the bitter, bitter, cold winter. As I say, the experience was, to me, unimaginable. I know that he knew that his survival was as much luck as anything. Had he been standing ten feet to the left or right at the wrong instant, he might have been mortally wounded.

My father's war record was exemplary. He was awarded the Bronze Star, Combat Infantryman's Badge, marksmanship medals; and, his 28th Infantry Regiment received the Presidential Unit Citation. Those details make me very proud of what he did. I take his war experience personally, I believe that he went to war for my freedom and liberty. And I thank him for that. Ironically, amongst his medals was the ribbon for the purple heart. He was not actually wounded in battle, so was apparently not eligible for that medal. We figure he probably won that in a poker game.

I only regret that I never asked him about his war experiences. Only through my oldest brother's diligent research, all done years after my father died, do we know anything about the details of my father's exemplary war record. My father stashed the medals away, and never talked about his war experiences. Such was the World War II soldier, the strong silent type. Shame on me and my siblings for never asking him what he did in the war. That's a mistake that you might try to avoid. Make sure you know about your parent's history before it is too late. I assure you, the time will come when you will want to know.

My father came home on medical leave from World War II in April 1945. I was born nine months later. One of the original baby boomers. I was born at home, not in a hospital.

Througout much of his life, my father loved to hang out at the bars and drink and play poker. That was common recreation for local factory workers. His lifestyle combined with his war experiences caught up with him and in the early 1960's he had a series of strokes, and he never worked again. He retired at age 56. I was the only kid left at home. We lived on Social Security Disability, his Steel Mill pension, and an Army check secondary to disabilities from the war.

We became a little lower middle class, but if I missed anything, I didn't know it. Although I confess, in 1963 I had a difficult time moving from my neighborhood of nine years, with all my friends, to a smaller house in another neighborhood.

Losing his independence was tough for my dad. On one occassion while trying to mow the grass he managed to cut off two toes on his right foot. He put off giving up driving, resulting in a serious automobile accident in 1977, leaving my mother hospitalized with broken ribs and internal injuries. Anytime he was hospitalzed, he would simply leave on his terms. His longtime doctor, Dr. Katz, finally dropped him as a patient because he was so cantankerous. In the 1980's he had to have a leg amputated due to poor circulation.

In March of 1985, seven months after my mother died, my sister called to tell me she had found dad on the floor at his home, unconscious. My last moment with him was alone in his hospital room. He wouldn't be leaving on his own terms this time. I squeezed his hand to see if any consciousness was hidden beneath the surface. I couldn't tell if he squeezed back or not, I only know I wanted him to. At age 79 my seemingly invincible father died on March 10th, 1985.

The visitation, funeral, and burial were emotional for us. Particularly emotional was the presence of the American flag, symbolizing how much he gave of himself for freedom, liberty, and justice for all. I still take it personally, and I have the flag.

That evening, as we always did when my brothers were in town, we went to my dad's favorite haunt for dinner, Jack's Tavern on Washington Avenue in Upper Alton. In his younger, wilder days he was barred from Jack's tavern. One night the bartender refused to serve him, and he threw a beer bottle through the front window. During an innocent visit to the Alton Police station, he was told that they had a warrant for his arrest.

I recently received the following e-mail from a World War II veteran who had visited the site:

"I went through many of the same places that George did. I had my basic training in Camp Blanding Fl. and he relieved us in the Hurtgen Forrest. I would like to hear more. If I knew how to send a picture, I would send a picture of me in 1944 in uniform.

I know what he went through."

That last sentence was chilling. I've asked him to elaborate. Today, I'll visit my dad's burial site in Oakwood cemetery and his memorial brick at the Veteran's Memorial at Gordon Moore Park. Then I'll retire to the back porch awhile.

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