John Wolf

I tell ya, I have no idea what I did without the thingy on my computer's home page that tells me about things that happened On This Day.

Today's OTD entry is about Eddie Slovic. Eddie had a much-too-interesting life of crime, but he's remembered more for his death. Eddie was drafted into World War II in 1944, and allegedly deserted his platoon (or whatever you call "group of soldiers who work together") several times, often getting "lost" and sometimes managing to be reassigned to another platoon, especially when going into battle was imminent.

One day, the military had had enough of Mr. Slovic, when he actually deserted, admitted to it, wrote a letter stating what he'd done, and said he'd do it again if given the chance. He was given several opportunities to recant his testimony and rip up the letter with no consequences, but he refused, saying he'd made his choice and that he'd take his court martial. He was court-martialed, sentenced to death, and executed on this day in 1945.

Tonight, Thursday, I made dinner for Tony's (my husband's) grandpa. Grandpa is sick; he has mesothelioma, which is a kind of lung cancer caused by asbestos. Grandpa was an electrician and spent most of his working career in Phoenix, building it. Back then, asbestos hadn't been identified as being as harmful as it actually is, and he certainly breathed in his share of it.

Grandpa is quite a man. He had cancer in the 1980s and fought that off. I met him in 1986, when I moved to Phoenix from a tiny town in Michigan after meeting Tony my first year of college. He met me at Tony's house, opened his arms, and said "I'm grandpa!" To this day, I'm his granddaughter, not just Tony's wife. His wife, Grandma, died in 1988, just before Tony and I were married.

But Grandpa put on a burgundy suit (our colors were burgundy and dusty rose--yeah, yeah...it was the 80s!) and had a huge smile on his face when he performed our wedding ceremony. After that, he traveled. He went to Disneyland with us and rode all the rides-even the roller coasters. He drove from Phoenix to Michigan, and to Missouri, and once up to western Canada, across Canada, over to Cape Cod, down to Florida and then back across to Phoenix. He made room for a cat who needed a home, Noel, and he loved her until she died, too.

He welcomed his great-grandchildren when they came, first those of Tony's cousins, driving his camper van back to Missouri, then Michigan, to see them when they were born. Then his sisters children, then ours. He grieved for and with me the best way he knew how when I lost our first baby, a daughter named Emily Claire whose body formed with many massive heart defects and who was stillborn at 28 weeks. He rejoiced when I gave birth to two healthy children, and blessed our son Ben, then our daughter Julie, when they were born. He's been at all the great-grandkids' birthday parties in Phoenix, because as he's gotten older it's harder for him to drive so far. He did fly back, for awhile, for as many trips as he could. He's lived at the other end of our block for the past 14 years, always being a big part of our kids' lives.

But now, he's sick. He's going home to be with Jesus. He's 89 years old, and he has lived every one of his years to its fullest extent. He even fought in World War II. And tonight, when I took spaghetti and veggies and garlic bread to him, I told him that I'd read that today in history was the day that the only man sentenced to death for desertion from WWII was executed. Grandpa said, "I was there."

He proceeded to tell me the whole story, how this man had led a life of crime before the military, was drafted, and kept deserting his platoon. The men that were the firing squad bunked with Grandpa's company the night before the execution, having come from another place and needing a place to stay. All the men in the firing squad were happy to accomodate the government's wishes, he said; they were ready to get rid of this man who caused them so many problems. The day of the execution, Grandpa was on guard duty outside the place where he was executed. He remembers this man being marched into the place, surrounded by armed soldiers. He heard the shots of the firing squad, saw the other troops march out, and saw the ambulance with the man's body inside parade by. He went back to the barracks, he said, and the firing squad soldiers were there. They had been all ready to get rid of this guy, but when he got back, they were all ill and shaking. They'd never had to shoot someone in their own uniform before. They hadn't expected to feel that way, but they did.

"Slovic," said Grandpa. "His name was Slovic." And he was right. Eddie Slovic died in 1945, and Grandpa was there to see it.

I will miss grandpa, when he dies. I know it will be better for him...he's ready to go. He's tired out. He's tired of fighting. He's tired of cancer, and tubes draining his lung, and oxygen prongs. He's tired of catheters, and not being able to drive, and people having to come and make him dinner. I will miss hearing about WWII, about his Dorothy, and about his travels. He has given so much of himself to everyone, and even though he misses his independence, it is truly a blessing to me to be able to give something, even some small pot of spaghetti, or homemade cookies, to him. The world won't be the same without him in it. It will be harder, a little less happy, a little less historic. His house will probably be sold; no one in the family needs it. New people will move in, change the paint, maybe put up a fence. Who knows? It will be different. It will be hard. But this man, who remembers the name of a man he saw executed over 50 years ago, has earned his rest.

I love you, Grandpa.