By Dee Longfellow
More memories of days gone by …
As I retire, it’s been fun to recall the most memorable times over the past 22 years, even if some were sad.
I was walking down the hallway of my childhood home in 1967 when something stopped me dead in my tracks—I overheard my parents talking. My brother Joe had been drafted.
One of my biggest fears was that he might have to go to Vietnam—and that he might not come back. Not that my brother’s a wimp—he’s a musician! Musicians are typically “lovers, not fighters.”
One day, he spotted a notice on a bulletin board indicating the Army band was looking for French horn player. While his main instrument was the trumpet, he could play the French horn as well. He wound up serving his hitch in the U.S. Army band, stationed in Germany. A long way from Vietnam, thank goodness!
Joe’s birthday happens to fall on Veterans Day, and would you believe he married a woman whose birthday is also on Nov. 11. His beautiful wife, Sandy, passed away last April.
About Joe Vanek
Nov. 11 fell on a weekend in the year 2007 and after taking photos at the annual ceremony in Wilder Park, then-Illinois U.S. Rep. Peter Roskam came to present long-lost medals and commendations to a gentleman who had served in World War II. The man’s eyes flooded with tears as Roskam offered up those precious items. It was a wonderful moment to share.
After that, it was home to work on the Independent and, in order to meet deadlines, some phone calls went to voice mail. There were several that day; more than usual. Then there was a message on the answering machine of my landline (remember those?). All I heard was “something about Joe Vanek.”
No. It can’t be.
It was—Joe Vanek had been killed in action on Nov. 11, Veterans Day—and my brother Joe’s birthday.
Joe Vanek was the son of Elmhurst residents Frank and Jan Vanek and the brother of Ann Vanek (now St. Martin, wife of Dennis and mother of Joe Vanek St. Martin and his little brother Leo). Ann graduated from York with my stepson John Born. Frank and Jan were both active in the Elmhurst community, in Rotary, Frank on the Library Board and Jan as a 2nd Ward Alderman, and more.
Jan kept up a brave front in the hoopla that followed the gut-wrenching news, the funeral at IC, the burial at St. Mary’s, dodging the big shots in Springfield, who wanted to come up and make a big political event out of it, as well as the protesters who were rumored to be at the cemetery (they weren’t, thank goodness).
Frank however, well, his face was long and drawn; he was the saddest anyone had ever seen him.
Prior to this, the parents of soldiers like Joe, who had taken basic training at Ft. Bragg and were now serving in Iraq, set up an online effort called “Bragg to Bagdad,” a commitment to walk that number of miles, each person in their own community. I had composed a nice story about the effort and was all set for it to go to the presses when the news of Joe’s death came.
Just like the Larry Roesch story from last week, the “good news” about the “Bragg to Bagdad” effort had to be capped off with an obituary of a young man who had barely started his adult life when it was cut short.
And, it’s probably no surprise, he was supposed to have been discharged a few months before, but we likely all remember those “Stop Gap” measures—which makes his death even more crushing and hurtful—he wasn’t supposed to be there.
He was supposed to be home by then, buying that motorcycle he told his sister he was dreaming of.
Frank himself died within the next year. He had cancer, but Jan confirmed that, really, Frank had died of a broken heart.
“[Joe and Frank] used to carve the Halloween pumpkins together every year,” Jan said. “It’s the little things that you miss.”
My brother Joe was born on Veterans Day. My friends’ son Joe had died on Veterans Day. It’s one of the reasons there’s a soft spot in my heart for our veterans. And it goes even deeper than that for me.
All in the family
My maternal grandparents met during World War I when he was stationed in Camp Zachary Taylor in Louisville, where my grandmother had a dance studio, following a career as a dancer that included a stint as a Ziegfeld girl.
Her studio offered free dance lessons to the soldiers, and my grandfather took her up on it. She had a rule never to date her students, but she broke that rule to date him.
Fast forward to World War II. My parents met at a USO in Fort Worth, Texas, while my father was at Camp Mineral Wells and my mother attended TCU and loved football—I remain a TCU fan to this day.
My now-deceased ex-husband, Ed Born, served in the U.S. Navy aboard two ships: the U.S.S. John Hancock, a destroyer, and the U.S.S. John McCain, an aircraft carrier. Some of the pilots who took off from the McCain didn’t come back; they ended up in the “Hanoi Hilton,” the POW camp where Arizona Senator and presidential candidate John McCain was held captive.
Like my grandmother, I had a rule not to date anyone at my workplace. I broke that rule to date Ed Born, who brightened my life with his two children, John and Michelle.
Some rules are made to be broken.
Yes, I’m retiring effective Oct. 31, but I’ll be in Wilder Park for Veterans Day.
