Give and Take

When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.

I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.

It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.

A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.

Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.

My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.

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As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.

Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.

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I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?

I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.

But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.

Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.

So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.

And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.