Every branch of the armed services has been represented, save the Air Force. Army, Navy, Marines, the Union against the Confederacy, all of them. I don't believe any female family members served directly in the service. My maternal grandmother was an ambulance driver in the Red Cross during WWI.
In fact, that's how she met my grandfather, who was an Army Surgeon during WWI. I don't know the whole story but my grandmother was German. Whether she was living in Germany during the war, or left beforehand, I don't know.
I do know that she had a rather thick accent, was not particularly demonstrative, and she scared the bejeebers out of me, when I was a child. She was strict, rigid, and always, always right. Why did I ever think otherwise?
I never met my grandfather. But I heard the stories. My mother adored him. He was as outgoing, kind, and fun-loving as my grandmother was not. He doted on my mother and had many adventures with her.
When she was fifteen, he would take her to the park and let her drive the car. He often took her to social engagements when my grandmother did not want to go. One of my favorite pictures of him and my mother was taken at a charity auction. They were looking at the items to be auctioned. My mother looked lovely, wearing a hand-me-down dress and coat from her mother. Her facial features, in the photograph, are exquisite and very delicate. And Grandfather was a very large man.
As I mentioned, he was a physician. A surgeon. When the family lived in St. Louis, MO, his office was in his home. Patients would crowd the waiting room every day. It was a cacophony of familiar noises: coughing, conversation, the rustling of newspapers, and the incessant clucking of chickens. Yes, chickens.
You see, my grandfather practiced medicine during the Great Depression. Not all of his patients could pay cash for their medical needs. So, they paid in chickens. Or freshly baked bread. Or vegetables in season. Whatever they had of value, they brought to Grandfather. And he accepted it as “payment in full” for his services.
It was also during Prohibition. And down in the cool, dark basement, Grandfather had row after row of bottles of homemade beer. All different size bottles, containing illicit beer and topped with corks, filled every nook and cranny of the basement.
Of course, you can see it coming, can't you? The waiting room, filled with patients? The chickens clucking? Grandfather in the other room, caring for a patient?
Something happened. A change in atmospheric pressure. A temperature rise. Too much yeast. Something. And suddenly, the waiting room's cacophony was drowned out by what sounded like World War I being fought in the basement. Popping corks, sounding like gunfire. Bottles falling, breaking, and spilling their precious contents....
Chagrined, Grandfather cleared out the exam rooms, the office, and the waiting room, sending folks scurrying outside to protect them. As far as I know, he never got “found out”..... Perhaps his patients didn't want to lose the services of the physician who didn't mind being paid in chickens.
Or maybe they didn't figure out what happened in the basement.....
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