As you probably know, today, November 11, is Veterans Day in the United States. It didn’t start out that way, but was renamed Veterans Day in 1954 by President Dwight D. Eisenhower. It was not meant to memorialize fallen military personnel. For that, we have Memorial Day in May. It was meant to celebrate all those who have served in the military in defense of our country.

But November 11 did not become a holiday in 1954. It had been a federal holiday since 1938, proclaimed by Franklin Roosevelt as Armistice Day, celebrating the day on which an armistice was signed ending World War I in 1918. In fact, the 1918 armistice was recognized, although not with holiday status, since 1919.

Legend has it that the armistice was signed on November 11 at 11 a.m. Apparently, the 11 a.m. reference is apochryphal, although let’s be honest….it must have been about 11 a.m. somewhere.

Here is one of the gems of my postcard collection, a French postcard commemorating the signing. You see it says 5 in the morning. It was 11 a.m. in Hanoi, or it Bangkok, so there! And of course, it took another year or so before the formal treaty was signed at Versailles.

November 11 was also the day my father was born. He was 15 when the armistice was signed. Looking at it that way, World War I, to me, doesn’t really seem that long ago. My father passed away in 1979, at 75. That, to me, seems like yesterday.

My father was born in 1903 in Kansas City. You might have heard that “everything’s up to date in Kansas City”, but I am not so sure. Here is my father at age 3 or 4 or 5.

My father did not get married until he was 38. His life before that is pretty much a mystery to me. I never really asked him much about it. Today, I don’t know why. And he certainly didn’t talk about it.

Digression: My 11 year old granddaughter doesn’t ask me anything about my earlier years, and I can sort of see her tune out if I refer to them. Recently, I asked her why kids her age weren’t interested in their grandparents’ childhood. Her answer? “Some might be, but I’m not.” An honest answer. I bet I thought that at 11, too. I had my own life to worry about. End of digression.

My father’s family moved to St. Louis when he was 14. I am told he was a very good athlete. A Kansas City champion youth tennis player, and a high school basketball star at Soldan High School in St. Louis. I am sure both are true, but I never saw him do anything athletic in the 36 years I knew him.

He went to St. Louis University Law School and was apparently a star student, and must have been a very nice guy then (as he always was). So nice that a Jesuit official from St. Louis U (a Jesuit school) came one day to talk to my grandmother about helping him to convince my father to enter the priesthood. Apparently, they had a nice conversation. Of course, I heard this from my grandmother, not my father.

My father became a lawyer in 1924 and practiced law, always with one or two partners for 50 years. I know something about his law practice beginning in my teen years, but almost nothing about his first 30 years.

I recently came across his draft registration card.

The Selective Service Act (I am not sure of its formal name), passed in 1940 required all men under age 45 to register. Because he is listed as 38, he signed this after November 11, 1941. In 1942, the military stopped drafting men 38 or older, and he was not called up. He told me once that, during World War II, he worked as a civilian attorney for the Army-Air Force. Now, you know as much about that as I do.

My father was very devoted throughout his life to his parents and his seven siblings. Perhaps, with seven siblings, you can see why the priest saw him as fair game. But what was my father’s social life before he was 38? Did he have any girl friends? Had he been married three times before? No, I don’t think he was married, but I know nothing.

Well, one thing. I was visiting a friend years ago when I was still in school and they had a guest over, an attractive woman originally from St. Louis who was living in Atlanta. When we were introduced, she asked me if I was related to Meyer Hessel. That was a surprise, and it turned into a shock when she told me she had dated him (once or for ten years, I do not know) and that he was very handsome. That night, I told my father whom I met. Did he remember her? His answer, as I recall was “Maybe”. Then, off to another subject.

Here is a picture of me and my father. Yes, quite handsome.

My father is the one on the right, by the way.

Today is also the birthday of my old friend (we met 72 years ago) Charlie G. in Charleston (Charles of Charleston, never thought of that before), and I always wish him happy birthday. He always thanks me. He also says he reads my blog every day. This is the test of that.

And to close the circle, if I recall correctly, the man driving the wagon in the picture from Kansas City, is Charles of Charleston’s great-grandfather . Do I have that right?