He lay there in the field of his parents’ German farm and watched the WWII bombers fly past.
The war became personal when, as a student in Catholic High School in Germany, the Russian soldiers rounded everyone up and took them to Russia. His teacher, a priest, was never seen again. When WWII ended, the youth were allowed to return to Germany.
The towns buildings were piles of bricks and rubble. The government demanded six months work out of him. The good bricks were stacked neatly, and Germany rebuilt itself.
He went on to medical school. In Germany, he was a doctor of everything. He wanted a blond wife. The students use to swim in the Rhein River. His cousin saw a group of girls who would also go to the river to swim. He focused on one girl and told her she was the perfect wife for the doctor student.
The doctor student had never noticed her because he was looking for a blond, and she was dark haired. But they hit it off and got married. She was a nurse, he was the doctor.
They must’ve been lovely. They had a weekend home where also their dog and the caretaker lived. They had a lot of fun.
They would vacation in Southwest Florida. On a bikeride once, he fell in love with a home.
“Dear, I found the perfect house for us.” They did purchase it and retired to that lovely home.
That’s where I met his widow. He had passed on from a major stroke. I venture to guess he had the stroke due to dehydration from golfing a lot and mowing the lawn one hot summer. The summers were getting to be brutal.
A few things in particular stood out about their home. Big maps, one of the world, one of the United States, were on the kitchen walls. She let them remain. The neatest things were model airplanes, bombers to be exact, hung from the living room and garage ceilings. On the garage door were farm trucks “driving” along a metal ridge of the door.
For the doctor, he would always remember the day in that farm field, watching the enemy bombers flying overhead, the day time stopped and began.
