A bit of a personal, emotional ramble ahead.

My grandparents raised me, and my grandfather lived through a whole variety of horrible experiences in WWII in the Pacific and China/Burma/India theaters.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guadalcanal_Campaign
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merrill%27s_Marauders

I do not deeply understand their relationship, but I know that my grandfather was not kind to my dad, their only child. As I read the story about Mr. Wilsey, the father and husband, I was constantly reminded of my grandfather, directly but more indirectly.

He was 51 years old when I was born, and I spent most of my first six years with him and my grandmother. At that time, my parents divorced and assigned full legal custody of me to my grandparents. I grew up there, leaving when I was 18, and my grandfather was 69, my grandmother 67.

My grandparents were kind to me, but my grandfather was distant. He was distant with everyone. He had only a single close friend, who died of cancer in the late 70s. He almost never spoke of what he went through in the war. He rarely spoke at all. He had a quick wit, and rarely, he would inject acerbic barbs into conversations.

He took me to some Veterans of Foreign Wars meetings in the early 80s, where I met and spoke to two other old men, whose names I can not recall. They served with him in Burma.

Several times, they took me aside and told me things about my grandfather. Things he would never speak of. How he could fire a clip from his BAR on full automatic and lethally aim individual clusters of bullets, singly stopping a Japanese assault.

They told me that he lost, killed, six different ammunition carriers. How a slug lodged in his femur and extensive fragmentation wounds had no impact on his ability to slaughter the enemy, day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month.

I learned how he had received the pile of ribbons and medals that I had caught a fleeting glimpse of in the attic.

The daily horror, fear and relative certainty of death. Of the horrors they inflicted, all too often needlessly.

The man who raised me also raised my father. But those 25 years made a big difference. I'm sure that all of the critical words and quick anger were still inside him in the 70s and 80s, but inside they stayed.

Though I never heard the word 'love' come from his mouth, I had no doubt that my grandfather would do anything for me. And he did.

Though notoriously cheap (for instance, we 'harvested' ketchup and mustard packets from Jack in the Box to refill our supply), my grandfather spent many hundreds and thousands of dollars to buy me a Color Computer and a TRS-80 Model 100 laptop in the early 80s. Though he had only a 6th grade education, he knew, in broad strokes, what the future would look like, and the things his grandson would need to learn.

I speak little of my grandmother here. She was a far more open and loving person, but she took heavy doses of Valium and related drugs the whole time I was with them, and after. She and her husband had slept in separate beds since before I was born. They had no love for each other. They were house-mates, generally tolerating each others presence, and helping each other as needed.

In many ways, my grandparents were progressive, open-minded people. But they did not support of "mixed marriage." Though it didn't drive them crazy either. "Live and let live" was their credo. Yet they were raised in casual, abstract and always present racism. I heard a lot about how the "Mexicans are taking all of our jobs", growing up in Southern California.

This isn't all that pleasant, but it is Real Life. Real Life is muddy and complex and conflicted. And people in the past carried different cultural burdens than we do today.

After their deaths, I, like so many others, venerated the Greatest Generation. During their lives, I took my grandparents for granted. But they were patient with me. They were pretty sure I would grow out of my selfishness and arrogance, even though they would not live to see it. And they were ok with that. Their love and support were iron-clad and steadfast.

The Greatest Generation is important. So are the Baby Boomers, and my own Generation Xers. And my son's Millennials. All important.

And complicated. And conflicted. We will find that every generation is generally laden with backwards cultural norms.

This article solidifies much that I already knew about the raw, life-long impact such things have on people. It helps me understand my dad a little better.

I'm not sure how to end this somewhat emotional ramble, so I'll exhort everyone to embrace the complications and conflict that make up every person, of every generation. Understand their personal and cultural history.