...I got a job with the Feds.

Ha, I wish!

Unfortunately, I work under the not-so-glamorous umbrella of Department of Veterans Affairs. This is quite a change from when I was pursing a PhD. If I had received a PhD then I would have signed my life away and become a slave to NIH, the God of Grants and Money Minion to the Federal Government. In my current position, I skipped the NIH middleman and just signed my life away to the Federal Government.

During our New Employee Orientation, we watched a video of an aging War World II veteran, his life story told in a mosaic of baby, family and war pictures set to incredibly bad music sung by Don McLean's retarded brother. "Oooh, who do you think I am? What do you seeee? A cranky old man? Oooh, take a good look at meee!"

The video was only 5 minutes long and by golly, I had tears in my eyes by the end. Then, I felt really bad for saying Don McLean had a retarded brother.

Why the weepy reaction? Sure, I could chalk it up to the uncontested talent of my "waterworks"--I can cry anywhere, anytime--but the fact is, the featured curmudgeon of an old man reminded me of my grandfather, also a WWII vet. I never had a chance to meet him.

I miss a man whom I have never met. He is a direct link to the past that I can only learn through torn pictures and staccato stories. Trying to piece together the stories of my grandfather as told by my aunts and uncles is nearly impossible when they are in the same room. At least 20 conversations between 8 individuals are going on simultaneously. I think it's an age old family tactic so that only those with the highest multi-tasking ability (or shortest attention span) can reign and bear future multi-tasking and short-attentioned generations. If that's really a desired trait and all...

Alright, enough with the tangents. Back to Grandpa and the whole Link to the Past spiel.

I wish I could have asked my grandfather what the war was like. I wish I could have asked him about what life was like growing up in the 20s, 30s, and 40s.

My grandmother was alive when I was born and even then I never asked her much about her life. It's a shame to have wasted an opportunity to connect with the past. I didn't find out until she died that she drove from Michigan to California. By herself. In a Ford Model T. At age 20. This could be likened to my own adventure coming up in July.


Ok, I can't concentrate on this post anymore because I have Peter Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" stuck in my head. God, short attention span.


Now you will, too.