The “Greatest Generation” is fading from sight. For the few who are still alive, most are on the tail-end of their ninth decade. They grew up in the 1920s and 30s lived through the depression, then a world war.

My dad grew up on a farm. Before the sun was up, he was milking cows and doing his chores. After his chores, he’d dress for school. He wasn’t a stellar student but followed his older brother to college and pledged the same fraternity because that’s what his dad wanted. In his freshman year on December 7, 1941, he was lounging with fraternity brothers when someone ran into the great room and announced that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

My mom was in high school in December 1941. She was an only child and daughter of a former judge and mayor. He was a “big deal” in her hometown, but he died the year before from a massive heart attack. My mom was at home with her mother on that fateful day listening to the radio. The newsman announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked.

My dad finished his freshman year, and enlisted in the Marines in early 1943. Before he left for Camp Pendleton, he asked his girlfriend to marry him. He gave her a family ring and she gladly accepted.

The following year, my dad was on Maui preparing for another island assault. They had some downtime and mail call was announced. He received a letter from his fiancé. He opened it anticipating happy news. Instead, he got his “Dear John” notice. His love was breaking off their engagement. She found another man. Her new lover was a flyboy – a pilot, and she had fallen for him. They were getting married, she told my dad. Fortunately, she returned the ring to his parents. She was sorry, of course. So was my dad. Like so many soldiers fighting a war, another state-side guy had stolen a wife, a girlfriend, or fiancé of a guy fighting a war.

A few months later, my mom was scrubbing the floor of a sorority sister’s bedroom. She wasn’t happy (about scrubbing floors). She was looking around the room and noticed a photo of a young man and asked her sorority sister who was “that boy”?

“That’s my brother. He’s overseas. Why don’t you write him? He’d like that.” So she did. And he wrote back – infrequently. He didn’t “know” her. His last letter to her was in October of 1945. The war was over and my dad was part of the occupying force in China and about to ship home. He was looking forward to finally meeting his pen-pal.

He returned home in December 1945 and traveled back to his hometown and the family farm. When he saw his dad at the train station, it was the only time he saw his father cry. They drove back to the farm, where he met his pen-pal. My mom and dad were married in my mom’s hometown on April 6^th,1947.

They raised four children. Went through some hard bumps and good times too. Their fourth child was and remains a hellion, a “catholic mistake” and general pain in the butt. That would be me. They endured the death of their only daughter at 26. Through all of it, they remained true to each other.

On April 6^th, they celebrate their 75^th Wedding Anniversary. According government statistics, couples reaching their 70^th are one-tenth of one percent. There are no statistics for reaching 75 years married, because it’s so rare.

Their love for each other has never wavered. Happy Anniversary, kids!