On December 7, 1941  I was returning home from Sunday School at The Church of the People, where my grandfather was a member. It was a pacifist congregation in a time of war. My grandfather was among those who carried signs of protest against shipping of scrap metal to Japan. He believed we were contributing to weapons of war. He was right.

      At the corner of 45th and University Way I came upon a mass of young men in Navy uniforms. They were waiting for busses to take them to Sand Point Naval Air Station, located about three miles from my house. I was 10 years old at the time and wondered why all these people were gathered on what was usually a quiet corner.

      When I got home—about 2 miles from that intersection—my dad told me that we were at war. Attacked by the Japanese (later to be known as "the Japs"). The rest of the day was spent in front of our console radio listening to the news and the President declaring war on "this day of infamy."

      I was six years too young to join anything, but my dad was barely within sign-up age. He joined while I stayed home as a "war kid." Before that I had only been a "depression kid." Although my dad could easily have been exempt because of having four children at home, he signed up in the Navy. Why, I never knew. He had a reserve rank of 2nd Lieutenant in the Cavalry that he could have transferred into the Military Police. For some reason he wanted to get closer to the war.

      One day we got on the bus and went downtown to see him off. He was put together with a bunch of other recruits and marched on to the train for the Naval training station in Idaho. He was the oldest of the recruits.

      Like a million other families we watched the war news every day. Ships went down, but not the Wilson. It was hit by suicide planes and torpedoes, but survived the worst naval battle in American history. We lived each day by the mail delivery. The letters from dad made our day. Mom wrote every night. Letters came with parts torn or blacked out. Censored. Dad still managed to give us clues about where he was.

      We followed the war maps and the island maps of the South Pacific. We listened to the nightly news. We read the paper and looked for names of ships that had gone down. And we went on with our lives.

      Mom was like the majority of war wives. She had sole responsibility for the four of us. We were at the most difficult age for child raising. Somehow she kept us together. In those days some women worked in war-related industries. Most women stayed at home. Most did not drive. If they could there was gas rationing. They were too busy trying to provide food with sugar rationing and meat rationing. They were busy growing victory gardens and helping collect rubber and tin and tin foil for the war.

      Eventually the war was over. I remember pumping air into the tires of the family car. I let it down off the jacks. I got it ready for dad's homecoming. He came home to kids that had grown from childhood to youth. He came home to try to reclaim some place on the employment ladder. He came home to continue a marriage to which he had pledged himself many years ago. We became a post-war family.

      Our family, having its roots in the depression years, and emerging during the war years, made its way through the post war years. They were difficult economically. The rise from poverty into middle class was not easy. But foundations of courage, faithfulness, readiness to sacrifice and work paid off. The children grew to adulthood. All attended and graduated from University. The marriage lasted past a half century, and freedom and prosperity exceeded all hopes.

      Dad never talked about the war, typical of most WWII survivors. He was focused on making a better life for himself and his family. Whether his was the "greatest generation" as Brokaw argues, I wouldn't say. However, it was a generation that moved itself from the depths of the great depression to heights of prosperity never dreamed in ages past.

      The downside is that as our society prospered the successors of "the greatest generation" has brought on a culture of drugs and violence and social illness unprecedented in this or any other country. It is not the way the "greatest generation" wanted it to be. The generation that didn't fail us has been failed by many of us.  Tom Brokaw's book tells dozens of stories of lives from the WWII era much like mine.  A good read.