_{Thomas Cannon, WWI}

His name was Thomas. He was born in August, 1890, the third son, third child, of what would eventually tally to thirteen siblings. They worked a large farm in central Illinois. 

Each morning, Ma and the girls were up long before their men-folk (before the cock crowed). They rustled-up a hefty breakfast of ham, eggs, bacon, oatmeal, fresh-baked bread slathered in newly churned butter, flapjacks, berries, fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit, milk, buttermilk, topped off by strong coffee and sweet rolls, providing ample fuel for the labor-intensive work ahead.

As some gals cleared, others began lunch preparations. The rest milked the cows, fed the chickens, tended the garden and the orchard, picked the daily allotment of fruits and vegetables, scrubbed the laundry in the washboard tub and hung it to line-dry. They made the beds, swept the floors, dusted, mended, darned, sewed, spun, wove, canned, preserved, smoked and cured meat, put up stores for the winter, baked fresh goods daily, and when called for, nursed their sick. 

Da and the boys were up before dawn, cleared the fields, plowed, planted, tended, de-tasseled, insect fogged, harvested and stored the crops. They dug wells, felled trees, chopped firewood, learned carpentry skills, repaired outbuildings and fences, fished, herded, slaughtered and butchered livestock. 

Tom ‘s sixteenth summer, an adorable, sweet, eight-year-old girl came to live  and work with the family. By the end of the season, they all cried (Ma and Da too) when she left to return to the orphanage. They had come to love her as one of their own. Every year, when she left a summer’s end, they thought of her as a sister going off to boarding school for nine months, secure in the knowledge that next spring she would return to them. 

Eight years her senior, Tom was, by far, the gentlest spirit among the male siblings. Each summer, he listened intently while her growing intellect and curiosity gave evidence of her maturing from a wee-lass, to lassie, to womanhood. He was enamored of her spirit from day one and captivated by her wit, charm, strength and serenity.

One fall day, when she was old enough, he asked her to take a buggy ride. When they reached the river bluff, ablaze with golds and crimsons, he turned to her and said, “We’ve known from the beginning, you and me. ‘Bout time to make it official. I love you with all my heart and soul, Agnes. Will you be my bride? Will you bear my children?”  Her answer glowed in her eyes. 

In short order, WWI broke out. Tom left for France to serve his country as an infantryman. He never spoke of the horrors of mustard gas or trench warfare, but the legacy never completely left him. 

Tom never took a drink in his life, which was astounding considering his pure Irish lineage, and downright unbelievable, considering the copious amounts of alcohol consumed by his eight brothers, over their lifetimes. The strongest language anyone remembers passing his lips was, “What the Sam Hill?” He was gentle, kind, attentive, funny and generous with his time and belongings. He married Agnes immediately after returning home from, “The Big One.”

The rest of his life, he suffered from what he termed his, “black Irish moods.” Brief, periodic episodes of mystifying melancholy would envelop him and those closest to him said it was if he disappeared into another reality. No one knew much about PTSD. (“shell-shock” was the term then). 

For more than thirty years, Tom supported his wife and three children, working in the furnaces of Keystone Steel. As a younger man, he drew wire, suiting-up in heat resistant garb, as part of a team who literally walked into the fire to work for 3 minutes an hour, before the blast of the inferno drove them out to cooling stations. The last ten years, he continued as a night security guard. 

He provided for all his family’s needs, but not much for their mere wants. On more than one occasion, he arrived home on a bitter winter night, coatless and near frostbitten. When Agnes inquired, he replied, “I met a man with no warm home to shelter him. I could not walk away without offering him the only warmth I could.” 

Tom was my maternal grandfather.

He was both a hard worker and a soft place to land. He absolutely worshiped his wife and delighted in his children and grandchildren. He snuck me (sole, live-in grandchild) Popcicles when I didn’t get dessert, ‘cause I didn’t clean my plate at dinner. He held me close, as he once had held my mother, and read fairytales for hours on end.

During the eight years he battled bone cancer,(his legacy from a shrapnel wound, incurred decades before) he taught me about the dignity of the human spirit in the face one’s own mortality.

He was, and remains my first hero, 47 years after his death. Is it any wonder that “Tom” is my favorite male name?  ______________________________________________________ His

His name was Emil. He was born in August, 1901, the second youngest of six siblings. They worked a dairy farm in west-central Illinois. Their days began and progressed as those of all live-stock farming families of their day.

The womenfolk tended to the homemaking tasks, the men to the tending of the animals. 

Father was a gentle man with his family, but formidable with his herd. One day, young Emil sat atop a wooden enclosure and watched as Father repeatedly attempted to move a stubborn bull into the cow’s stall. (stud-duty apparently held no momentary appeal for the prized male bovine) Increasingly frustrated with the, “hunkered-down,” bull, Father grabbed an iron shovel and whacked the animal straight in the face. Stunned and stupefied, the bull rose and followed Father into the females’ lair. Whether any calving resulted remains a long-standing matter of family dispute. 

Emil dropped out of school after sixth grade to work the farm. He had an enormous appetite for information, however, and read daily newspapers for the remainder of his life.

As young, “studley,” men themselves, Emil and his brothers gained a well-deserved reputation for, “tearin’ up the town,” on Saturday nights. They were hard-workin’, hard-playin,’ testosterone-laden wildcats. 

Then, BAM!…One day, while working in town, SHE, that pretty, young thing, came into view and all the rest faded to background. He made his mind up, then and there, that she would be his wife. Some length of courting,’ sweet talking and sparking convinced Maude of their destiny. 

They married in haste. They loved in leisure…for 50+ years.  

Emil made his living as a bartender. He was able to support his family in relative comfort, during the depression years because, as he said, “Even if a man has no money to eat, he’ll find the money to drink,” He took no comfort in that observation, merely stating a fact. He was a good man in a tough world and he took it on with spirit and cunning. 

Emil was my paternal grandfather.

He was strong in opinion and focus, extremely intelligent, if not formally educated, devotedly loyal to his friends and family, well liked by most, well loved by his wife and progeny, imaginative, entertaining and engaging and on occasion, a total pain in the ass.

He lived life his way and never caved to others’ conventional judgment. Stubborn as his father’s prized bull, he took up a virtual iron shovel and held terminal emphysema at bay for thirteen years, before it finally claimed him.  

The world became sadly quieter upon his exit. Hats off, Emil! Thanks for the ride! 

* Footnote: I have no readily-available photos of grandpa Emil, as a young man. Trust me, he was a strapping, dark-haired, gray-eyed, "looker," in his day! The later photo (he in no way resembled Howard Cosell in real life, honest) was taken just months before his death and long-term illness had clearly ravaged his countenance, if not his spirit.