My Grandfather Survived War and Left Me with Peace
Would you like to hear about a Jewish Nazi-fighting badass who loved tennis, cupcakes, and socks?
Meet my grandfather, Elliot Winston. He died last Veterans Day.
But this is not a sad story, as he was not a sad man.
Before surviving the titular war, Elliot survived spinal meningitis. He contracted the life-threatening illness at age 6. There was no cure — not even medication to ease his pain.
When he lived past the supposedly un-live-past-able, his parents gave him the middle name Herbert.
Hebert = Chaim, ‘life’ in Hebrew
He survived war at an age 20, when most ambitious young men nowadays survive college or Tinder. He navigated a United States Air Force bomber aircraft then helped me navigate the world.
Elliot taught me to embrace love and peace and to completely let go of even the tiniest scrap of ego for the sake of laughter and play.
He also taught me about war, albeit a variety that’s more likely to lead to carpal tunnel than death: thumb war. He’d entertain me in playing the tedious game over and over and over, never flinching when, every five or ten minutes, my grandma would yell out “ELLIOT, STOP CROUCHING! YOU’LL HURT YOUR BACK!!!”
This war hero was my personal hero. He’d jump in the pool with his granddaughters, lift us atop his shoulders to pick fruit from the orange trees of his South Florida yard, spoil us (and our teeth) rotten with Junior Mints, and perhaps most heroically, allow us to poke fun at his toupee.
I used to believe that nothing — not combat, nor Florida hurricanes, nor the sugar in his favorite chocolate chip cookies (a dozen of which would often replace dinner), nor my grandma’s pleas to be careful twisting his back — could bring my grandfather down.
Alzheimer’s fooled me.
I grew older. The disease grew stronger. Grandpa grew less recognizable.
Less vibrant. Less witty. Less… grandpa-y.
Less.
Now, I have a confession: I rarely think of my grandpa as a war hero. Not because I didn’t think he was smart or brave or devoted enough to defend his country — he was clearly all those things — but because he was just so… happy.
When I read a college essay penned by my older cousin that detailed Grandpa’s years in the Air Force, I sincerely struggled to see him in the story. It read like a captivating tale describing someone else — a someone who would understandably be hardened by the horrors he saw and withdraw from the world.
But Elliot Winston did the opposite. Though he surely had some rough days, he turned his memories of war into love, celebrating humanity’s ceasefire by connecting with others. He laughed with carefree abandon, related to children by acting like one himself, and crooned out hit 1940s songs like lullabies.
Let me tell you about one more game my grandpa crafted for an audience of adoring granddaughters.
Whenever we’d ask Grandpa his age, he’d reply “As old as the moon!”
“Well, how old is the moon?” we’d counter, feigning frustration despite knowing full well what was to follow.
“As old the sea!”
“How old is the sea?”
“As old as the grass!”
“How old is the grass?”
“As old as the stars!”
And on and on, until eventually, Jenni and I would give up, viewing Grandpa not as 67 or 72 or 83 but as an utter legend, just like the moon, the stars, and the sea.
Though he may no longer be walking the Earth or crushing the competition in tennis matches, the memories that our family will carry of him — and the legacy of a life so beautifully lived — will make him as old as the moon, as beautiful as the sea, and as inspiring as the stars
forever.
One finally thing — for you, dear Grandpa (if in heaven you’ve finally managed to figure out the post-AOL internet so you could read this)— when I was on the fringes of adolescence, you told Jenni and me that you couldn’t wait to dance at our weddings one day.
My sarcastic response, with half a laugh: “Yeah, if you’re still alive…”
Well Grandpa, Jenni got married last May. And you were right there in our hearts, dancing the night away.
