Thumbs Up "V" for Victory, I Love You

THUMBS UP, `V' FOR VICTORY - I LOVE YOU It was the right place at the right time. I didn't realize it then, or for years thereafter, but being born in the small city of Columbia, Missouri, already a unique, but small 3-college, two-daily-newspaper town of about 18,000, was, in terms of experiencing a special childhood, one of the best places to arrive in the year before World War II began in Europe. It was truly Capra-esque. Coming along just a few years before the first of the Boomers, our group was later dubbed the “Silent” or “Eisenhower” generation, but whatever moniker was bestowed, most of us were very fortunate. Those born between 1936 and 1945 missed the most serious effects of the Great Depression, were first in line to take pleasure in the post-war boom, were too young for World War II and Korea, yet just the right age for the sexual revolution, and by inches, for the most part too old for Vietnam. I came into the world of my parents when they were living on South Fifth Street, then a pleasant, tree-lined little neighborhood not far from the University of Missouri campus. My Dad, a Missouri native who had journeyed with his family to Mississippi as a child, and returning to his home state as a young man, was learning to become a certified orthotist - a profession that administers to orthopedic surgeons in much the same way an optometrist works with an ophthalmologist. My Mom, who had graduated from high school at 16, and who later served as secretary to three University of Missouri presidents, was, around the time of my birth, a secretary to Missouri's Lieutenant Governor. My parents were not wealthy, but frugal, hard-working young middle class adults who had emerged from the difficult times of the early 30's with no discernible scars, and who provided me, and later my brother, with a comfortable upbringing. It's a challenge for any of us to remember exactly our earliest memory in life: how do you differentiate between that which someone told you and what you actually remember on your own? With me, I'm confident it was when I was several months into my fourth year of life, and en route on foot to the University of Missouri Hospital, just one block over from our house, for the purpose of getting my tonsils removed. Having these tiny body parts taken from you prior to beginning grade school was common in my day; supposedly, medical experts surmised, having one's tonsils removed early would boost the immune system, making us little guys less vulnerable to coming down with the many childhood diseases then so prevalent, including the dreaded poliomyelitis, or “polio.” The weather was cool, but humid, and there was a fog in the morning air, which seemed to accentuate the sounds above, behind and in front of me. Everything seemed ominous, which didn't help my outlook, considering what was before me. Dampening my fear was the trust I had in my Dad, whose hand held mine as we walked toward the hospital. It was an early spring day and Mom had already left in her carpool, driving to her job in Jefferson City, Missouri's capital. As we walked along an intersecting lane toward Sixth Street where the hospital was located, I remember looking up through the mist at the spires of a 19th century building - Parker Hall, the original University Hospital, a Bram Stoker-like Gothic presence, and thinking that this was an omen, delivering the message that I was surely on my way to certain death. Only the loving touch of my father's hand made it possible for me to continue propelling myself forward. I remember little of the preparations once at the hospital, but one moment stands the test of time. A few months before, the United States had entered World War II -- against Japan on one side of the world, and primarily Germany on the other. And as I walked through the haze that morning with my father, our country had found itself in a vulnerable position. There was no guarantee the United States could win a two-front war; the overall might with which our country was to express itself in so many ways over the next three years had yet to happen. The Doolittle raid on Tokyo had just occurred, and even though the pilots who put their lives on the line inflicted minimal damage with their bombing run, those in the country whose military had attacked Pearl Harbor without warning or provocation took notice, while adult Americans adopted the event as a rallying cry. And as an expression of that commitment, plus an added touch of togetherness and affection of a father for his child, my Dad had created a special three-part gesture that he communicated to me often, and to which I always responded in kind. As I lay on the operating table, with the anesthesiologist ready with the ether and the surgeon ready to cut, my Dad, standing there at the table for support, leaned over me, held his thumb in front of his surgical mask-covered face and said “Thumbs up”, and I returned the gesture and phrase - as the anesthesia cup in the doctor's hand began its trajectory downward, on its way to cover my nose and mouth. Then, with two fingers in a “v” formation, Dad added “V for victory”, and I responded the same, this time in a weak, muffled reply. His last move was to make a circle with thumb and forefinger, and with hand held close to his eye, would look at me through the circle formed and say “I love you”. In that instant, although I knew and felt the reply, and which normally I would have mimicked back to my father, my conscious being was on a slide toward surrendering itself to the lemony smell of ether, an odor I still abhor, and I was out. This gesture remained, at least through the end of the war, a special bond between the two of us -- and in a simple way symbolized the distinctive times in which we were living.