My uncle passed at ninety-six – a Marine who came home from the Pacific in 1945 and never spoke one word about the war, not at a single Thanksgiving in my lifetime – and clearing out his house outside Huntsville, Alabama, fell to me.
It was strange how quickly a life could be reduced to boxes. By the third day after my Uncle Walter’s funeral, every room in his little white farmhouse outside Huntsville, …
My uncle passed at ninety-six – a Marine who came home from the Pacific in 1945 and never spoke one word about the war, not at a single Thanksgiving in my lifetime – and clearing out his house outside Huntsville, Alabama, fell to me. Read More
