It is the end of the month. It’s been personally uneventful most of the time. It is also the last day of a long not-really-holiday weekend.

It is one of three holidays in which I celebrate the accomplishments that I know of involving special members of my family during the world wars.

My biological grandfather was a member of the military with the Black and Tan and the 7th Brigade out of Scotland. I know very little about him except this, and part of it may have been incorrectly expressed. No one has his military records anywhere.

But my dad… now there’s a story. Daddy studied meteorology and joined the army as an air traffic controller. His job was to bring in planes to safety from across the ocean.

Essentially this was stressful. The work of an ATC is stressful in the first place, but he frequently brought in planes barely able to touch home ground, sometimes without fuel, and there was always the shock factor of needing to swim out from shore and snag them before planes went under. Imagine watching them on radar and assessing their needs in seconds, not hours.

He was teased many times for being stationed in a vacation spot – the Bahamas. There was no vacationing to it. It was more wild and wooly and full of tension and anxiety than one would imagine.

Bringing the boys home safely. That was the thing.

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