My father was one of those born pre-1935. He was born in 1928, to be exact. He was one of those who grew up during the Great Depression. His father was a carpenter by trade, which explains why my dad was so hands-on despite being an accountant.
A little too young to serve in WWII, he enlisted after the war and served as part of the occupation of Japan, actually having seen the aftermath of, I believe it was Nagasaki, but it was possibly Heroshima.
What he told of that time was how impressed he was with the Japanese people, especially how they'd utilize any patch of earth, no matter how small, even in the middle of the city, to grow some kind of vegetable.
There was the story of one Chirstmas when he was growing up during the Depression. The family didn't have enough money for presents that year, so his parents decided there wouldn't be any. They didn't want anyone in the family feeling bad by being in a position of getting something without being able to give something in return. My father simply refused to let this happen. He delivered papers, mowed lawns, did anything and everything he could for whatever he could get for it, which during the Depression, wasn't easy. He saved every cent, and in the end, made sure that everyone in the family had enough money to get everyone else in the family at least some small present.
He built his own business as a CPA.
He got caught caught-up in some of the race riots in St. Louis during the time he was a lifeguard at the municipal pool. He told the story of there being a lifeguard tower in the middle of the pool, kind of like an island, and how he and the other lifeguards had, during a riot, ushered the colored people (his words, and without an ounce of prejudice in them, it was just the word used at the time) to the platform, and stood guard at the edge of the platform, for it was the most defensible place they could think of, with the deep pool around them serving as a moat.
Fortunately, he never had to defend the platform, but he would quietly speak of "riots being ugly, horrible things" but never say any more than that, or go into any details.
I could go on and on with stories of my father. One thing I am particularly grateful for, however, was that we got to play bridge during the last couple/few years of his life before he became too ill to do so. My father loved playing cards, and we found a regular bridge game, every other week. Those games gave us a chance to just talk in the car on the drive there and the drive back, so no matter how busy I got with other things, and my own family, we had that regular time to connect.
I miss you, Dad.
