So I’m lazy.
I’ve been doing this column for only a few weeks, and I’m already taking a day off.
Well, it’s not really like that, though my bosses will confirm that I’m lazy.
No, today, I’m just taking a small step away to bring you a short piece by reader Phil Huber, who lives in Fredericksburg.
Phil is retired now, but he spent time in the Army as a civilian and in consulting when he was doing the daily grind.
His story touches on summertime, the military and even one of my favorites, Carvel ice cream. My son and I still like to go to the Carvel in Arlington. (Just don’t tell the folks at Carl’s; we love them, too, especially now that they take credit cards).
Anyhow, I’ll let Phil take it away …
***
When I was a boy, from about 7 to 14, I spent my summers with my Grandma and Grandpa Kellner in Merrick, Long Island, N.Y. Those vacations lasted about six weeks, and every year felt magical.
My grandmother would make the long drive to pick us up and take us back. She took us to the beach, to New York City, and on drives up to Bear Mountain and West Point. Many mornings we simply enjoyed talking together, and in the afternoons, we had fun with local kids and cousins — often ending the day with ice cream at Carvel.
My grandparents were Frieda and John Kellner. They had immigrated to the United States in the 1920s and had two grown sons, George and Vic. John worked for the Long Island Railroad but never got a driver’s license, so Frieda did all the driving until their sons were old enough to take over.
What made this story unique is that the Kallners weren’t my grandparents by blood.
During World War II, my dad served in the Army. At some point, he was hospitalized on Long Island, where the man in the next bed happened to be George Kellner. George’s parents visited him often, and before long my dad began calling them “Mom” and “Pop.”
His own parents had died when he was young, so their kindness filled an important space in his life. The Kellners’ generosity extended beyond my father; they grew close to his fiancée, my mother, and her family in Pennsylvania. They often drove back and forth to visit during and after the war.
Both my dad and George served in the European theater, while Vic served in the Far East. George was captured by the Germans but was released at the end of the war. My dad and Vic returned home safely.
The Kellner’s continued visiting my family in Pennsylvania, and when I was old enough, I began spending summers with them on Long Island. My sister joined me later on.
Looking back, those years were filled with what I can describe only as unconditional love.
I can’t remember a single time my grandmother ever raised her voice at me. Maybe she did — I was no angel — but if so, I’ve long forgotten it, because her love overshadowed everything else.
Now, at 78, I often reflect on those summers and the blessing of being loved so completely by someone who didn’t have to love me at all. I wish I had told her more often how much I appreciated her kindness and the joy she gave me. I know she knew — but still, I wish I could tell her one more time.
If anyone reading this has someone in their life like my Grandma Kellner, someone who loves them unconditionally, please, tell them how much they mean to you. Don’t wait.
For your sake and for theirs.
