1Papa never really explained what war was to us. One day he sat us down and explained that he would be going away for a long time. I don't think he ever explained it to Mama either. She never seemed to understand why we were at war, or what war was any more than my two brothers, or I. I learned from Grandpa. He was my sanctuary during those tough years. Any questions that surfaced pertaining to anything other than womanly matters I asked of him. Many could say that war is battle/combat between two opposing forces, but I interpreted my own definition from Grandpa and the bag.
One day, maybe the defining moment of my childhood, the bag came. Drill Sergeant William Jacobs came to the front door to deliver it. Mama took it with a forlorn look in her eyes. Jacobs, who had come to be known for his temerity and impudent knack for breaking anyone's determination, arrived with that same heartbroken expression, and his words could have been compared to the sound of fluttering butterfly wings. After receiving the green bundle, Mama walked into the kitchen and sat down at the counter dissecting the room in half. She set the bag down a delicately unwrapped the 7 or 8 items that had belonged to Papa. Slowly, she extracted each: his dog tags, his brown faded wallet (which I knew held photos of my 5th birthday party, Benny's latest piano recital, and William's baby pictures), and the newspaper clipping announcing Mama and Papa's engagement. Finally her hand reached in and revealed a neatly folded piece of the stationary that had been a gift from my grandmother before he was sent out. Tears slowly streamed down the pale elegant face from which I took my likeness. I turned from behind the corner where I had been watching Mama, and ushered my two brothers back up the stairs and to their rooms. I knew she would need time to grieve, as would I, before she delivered the news to my siblings. In many ways Mama and I were alike. One way that I knew she would appreciate my understanding of, was that we grieved alone. Desperate embraces and wailing sobs only prolonged the mourning process and made it more difficult to recover and move on with life. Both she and I could be found later, alone, silently grieving, and thinking.
The moment I could look past my grief and general depression, I requested the company of Grandpa. My mind was on the brink of losing itself with questions. I needed to feel complete again, and only with knowledge was this possible. After a firm handshake (as was the way I always greeted this tower of sinew and bone) we seated ourselves in the "drawing room". This room was secluded, almost a different world from the modern 60's suburban home, in which my grandparents had established their niche. Grandpa had gone to great lengths to set the atmosphere of a colonial mansion, complete with Chippendale chairs and antique coffee tables. Great portraits of our ancestors adorned the walls, creating the general feel of having the best sort of company, even when one was alone. Grandpa sat himself in one of those aforementioned chairs and clasped his hands together, intertwining his long, brittle fingers. He leaned forward and looked deeply into my eyes. His dazzling blue irises painfully reminded me of Papa, but I kept my own under control as I stared back with feigned happiness.
"So, my little Emily. You have once again come to me for you answers." His deep voice sent soft shivers through my spine, and I let them relax my muscles. I had been tensed without realizing it.
"Yes, Grandpa. I don't think Mama has the heart to answer my questions. " I replied. By comparison, my voice resembled that of a field mouse.
"That is likely to be true. Your mother will need more time to grieve than I'm afraid you would allow." I thought I detected a faint chuckling in Grandpa's voice. "What questions do you have today? I'm sure there are many, so don't be afraid to ask them all. Grandma will be home with diner much later today." Form this I felt it safe to entertain two donkeys that Grandma would be coming home with something special. I had wracked my mind earlier today for the most important question to ask Grandpa, and I presented it before him then:
"Grandpa? What is war? I know it's got to do with fighting and stuff, but give me a real definition. Please." I added hastily. Good manners were always to be remembered when one was being entertained in any drawing room, anywhere. My grandfather pondered this one question with unusual intensity. He sat, stroking his scraggly beard, and jutting out his lower jaw; what had been established as his thinking face.
"War." He said finally. "War is a very complicated matter, my girl. If one desired a proper, textbook definition, it could be called a state of open, armed, often prolonged conflict carried on between nations, states, or parties. But for one specific person, with different views and opinions, the definition may be very different. Each individual may have their own interpretation, as do you and I." He paused. "What do you think war is?" His question slightly surprised me. Usually his answers were straightforward and, if not always, concise. I searched my brain for what I would consider it to be.
"War is. um. I is. death. War is death, Grandpa." He smiled at my definition, and nodded.
Grandpa and I continued our conversation late into the evening and somewhat into dinner (which consisted of fresh lobster and coleslaw with asparagus, my absolute favorite) before Grandma tacitly told us to discontinue the discussion at once by sending glares and frequently changing the subject of conversation. I left their home with a head full of Grandpa's wisdom and a stomach full of Grandma's cooking, both extremely satisfying.
As I continued through my life without Papa another definition formed in my mind. Quite frankly, war could be defined by the bag. An entire lifetime could be portrayed by whatever was sent home to families who had lost a loved one to the war. The bag showed pain, suffering, occasional happiness, and was an outlet for remembrance. War brought such pain and suffering, and as this interpretation of such a troublesome subject evolved in my mind, I found Grandpa's textbook definition to be true, of course, but it could not express what war really meant to those who had received the bag.