Why D-Day? Well, I’ve been obsessed by all things WWII lately, since well before coronavirus came on the scene. At some point shortly after I watched the movie “Hacksaw Ridge”, I learned that my father had been in the Battle of Okinawa. The Battle of Okinawa was the largest amphibious assault of the war in the Pacific, and one of the bloodiest of that war; there were approximately 100,000 casualties for the Japanese as well as 50,000 for the Allies. That my father – who died before I reached the age of 2 – was a part of that battle (and survived!) came as a revelation to me. I wanted to learn more about it, and by extension, more about WWII.
Now I’m seeking out and watching and reading everything I can about WWII. It turns out that I have more connections to the war in Europe than to the war in the Pacific. My stepfather was taken as a prisoner of war in the early days of the Battle of the Bulge (December 1944 to be exact); thankfully he was liberated in the late spring of 1945, before he could starve to death. My first father-in-law was a radio technician for the Polish Army, and he, too, was taken as a POW, and very early in the war. His radio/electrician skills saved him; he survived for 4 years as a POW before being liberated in the waning days of the war. Ed’s father – my last father-in-law – was a flight instructor. He never saw any action, which seems like a good thing to me, but I know he felt cheated out of an opportunity to be a part of the fight.
This newfound interest led us to watch the series Band of Brothers a few weeks ago, and we watched the movie Saving Private Ryan (again) this past weekend. Both essentially start with the assault on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. The actual date of D-Day (June 6, 1944) is now indelibly etched in my mind. But it made me start to wonder: what did the D in D-Day actually stand for?
Well, it turns out that the D just means “Day”. It’s a bit of a redundant term. It means the date of the operation or invasion. It simply follows that D+x refers to the number of days after D-Day.
Which brings us back to D+2. This sure seems like a weird kind of war, where all we can do to help the cause is to hunker down and stay indoors. Since I work from home, I’m pretty much always eager to get out the door after working hours are done. I value morning walks to a coffee shop to pick up a scone, late morning walks to the best local breakfast joint for an early lunch, Pilates class, harmonica class, piano lessons, dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant. Haircuts, pedicures, massages. You get it. We’ve become friends with all the people who provide services to us: they are part of our family, not just anonymous faces. We feel for them all as we enter the coming days. I still get a paycheck while I’m confined to home: that’s life as normal for me. But many of our friends and family in the services fields are going into very, very stressful times. We’re praying especially for their sakes that the “x” in “D+x” is a very low number.
And in the category of “it’s all about me”, I’m pretty danged bummed about this St. Paddy’s Day. No, not just because we ended up canceling our trip to New Orleans to see the St. Paddy’s Day Parade (canceled) and to partake of my friend Leann’s concurrent crawfish boil (also canceled). Not because of missed corned beef and cabbage (yuck to both, with apologies to those who love it). Not because of green beer (I may drink a green wine tonight). Nope. My disappointment runs more in the sartorial realm. The color palate of my wardrobe runs from pinks to blues to purples, with nary a green item to be found. Except for the shirt I bought specially to wear today, so I could fit in. Does it matter that I wore a green shirt, but nobody saw it?
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