When I think back to when I first fell in love with writing and stories I remember my grandpa.
You see, Grandpa bought me my first typewriter from a garage sale when I was about 8 years old. Oh what a glorious thing to behold that typewriter was in all of it's faded, rusty, antiquified glory! I remember sitting at the dining room table for hours click clacking away lost in my latest adventure.... and there were many.
But by far my grandest adventures of all came from the evening strolls around the neighborhood with grandpa. They were always lively events full of tales of fishing trips, treasures found at the latest garage sale outing, and stories of war.
Grandpa fought in World War 2.
On June 6, 1944 he floated up to the shores of Omaha Beach ready to fight off the brutal attacks given by the Nazi's.
The landings at Omaha is most remembered for the casualties the Americans took there. German machine gun fire tore into the American troops. The seawall on the beach offered some salvation - but the sprint needed across the beach to the wall proved fatal for many. The Americans suffered 2,400 casualties at Omaha - and this is principally why the attack is remembered.
Of the handful of men left standing that day, Quinton O. Ross (my grandpa) was one of them.
He was a hero. Among the recognitions for his service during World War II is the Purple Heart, Combat Infantry Medal, Presidential Unit Citation and the Bronze Star.
I often times wonder if ..... maybe Grandpa wanted his story told? Maybe that typewriter was a gift with a hidden purpose.
Grandpa went home to his glory a few years back now, and oh how I wish I still had that same rusty, old typewriter to tell of the tales of his life. You see, the two go hand in hand with one another.
Both from another era, old and weathered around the edges, and gone.... but oh the stories they once produced!
They are forever from another time altogether and utterly unforgettable!
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