Veterans Day: To generations dead, crippled and haunted by war, thank you

Veterans Day.

In what has been a melancholy autumn for me, today is a time of reflection and perspective.

To take the second point, first: My disappointments and valley experiences with surviving several rounds of layoffs this year at work, the transitions in what had been a steady freelance writing contracting gig, and most of all the denouement of family relationships . . . all those things seem rather small compared to the sacrifices made by our soldiers, airmen and sailors.

From the American Revolution through the Civil War, World Wars I and II, to Vietnam and, I presume, even today, Mimses have served in uniform. 

 

Three Mimses are on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., cousins, black and white, who died in combat on the ground and in the air.

Air Force Capt. George Mims, of Manning, S.C., was shot down over North Vietnam in December 1965, never to be heard from again, an MIA eventually declared dead in 1973. His body was never recovered.

Third-class Petty Officer Felton Mims, a Texan, drowned in Go Cong Province, while serving on a Navy river patrol boat in March 1969. (That's him in the photo above, getting a haircut from a crewmate).

Army PFC Kenneth Mims, from Alabama, died when stepped on a land mine as he and other members of the B Company, 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry, 101^st Airborne Division patrolled near Thua Thien in April 1971.

Four of my uncles served and survived, albeit with nightmares, the crucible that was World War II in the Pacific.

The Civil War killed relatives by the dozens, North and South, white and black. It directly affected my line of the family, with my great-grandfather, wounded severely in Shiloh, was left crippled and dependent on morphine before he died, leaving my 7-year-old grandfather and his mother destitute.

His poverty and a brutal upbringing by an older brother haunted him, and by extension my own father, who struggled with a distant, demanding relationship with his Dad.

To a far lesser extent, I experienced some of the same in my early years, before a mild heart attack left my dad more engaged -- just in time for my critical teen years.

Two Mimses fought the British, another fought for them, in the Revolution.

Now, the reflection part? Somehow, today at least, I feel far less sorry for myself.

And on this day I am quietly, thoughtfully grateful to those who fought, and sometimes died for their principles and country.

Miracles: They come in small, squirming, grunting and wide-eyed packages

My last installment from the Beltway trip is the best.

Gettysburg, D.C., Fort McHenry, etc., were all on my "bucket list," to be sure.

The best part of the trip, though, was one I had frankly given up on ever happening: holding a grandchild who would carry on our crazy, good, bad and indifferent gene pool to another generation.

I have two other grandchildren I love deeply. Joshua and Lela. I like to say they were "born in my heart," though not my bloodline.

And I mean that with all my heart.

Holding Gabriel was precious, though, in a way I had not expected to experience.

I marveled at all those ancestors -- now including my wife, Barbara, and myself -- who culminated genetically in that tiny, grunting, squirming bundle of boy I rocked in a Towson, Md. townhouse for two weeks.

Add that to the generations of his father, Idal, represented. . . men and women stretching back into the mists of West Africa's nation of Cameroon.

Gabriel's heritage, then, spans three continents and most people groups, other than Asian. Amazing. A lot to put on a (then) 7 pound, 5 ounce infant, though.

And if there is such a thing as generational healing, perhaps it culminates in Gabriel's advent, too. A couple centuries ago, some of my relatives bought West African slaves and used them to gain wealth on plantations throughout the Deep South.

When I visited Gettysburg, standing on Little Round Top, I mused that I trod ground where my southern ancestors fought and died, ultimately losing a decisive battle that ushered in the demise of slavery in America. 

And at the end of that Civil War, a Maj. Mims was a signatory of the Appomatox surrender registry for the defeated Army of Northern Virginia.

Standing in the rows of Union troops witnessing that surrender likely were other relatives, the Sprouls from Maine, and not a few runaway slaves who enlisted in the U.S. Colored Troops divisions, men who signed up under the name "Mims," having long since lost their own names.

Irony. And justice. All those historical metaphors.

But the best part of Gabriel was inexpressible.

How do you describe the warmth, peace and fulfillment of holding a newborn grandson?

God bless you Gabe, Lela and Joshua.

May the heritage this grandfather passes on to you be one of faith -- in God, your family and yourselves.

And Gabriel? Never forget your parents named you so for a reason. Your name? 

It means: God is my strength.