It was a stormy summer’s afternoon. The sky was as dark as slate, and the air was oppressive. I watched the clouds swirl above my head as my grandfather unlocked the front door of his house. He promised me that he could teach me how to carve leather, an activity he had taken up after his retirement, and, if time allowed it, look at some old family photographs. An hour into the visit, the winds had picked up and rain started to deluge. My grandfather had hauled out a particularly large photo album, it was filled with all types of photographs, from Polaroid to digital film. The photographs ranged from blurry snaps of old trucks, to Christmas photos from the 80s. As we looked through the album, I noticed the jarring difference between two particular photos: my grandfather’s senior photos, and his army photos. You could see changes in him that seems as if he is three different versions of himself.

My grandfather’s senior photos were in a sepia tone, with a bold, white border along the outside of the photographs. He was smiling ear to ear in a clean, crisp suit. His hair was full and blonde, unlike the grey, thin hair, he has today, and he had bangs that swept across the right side of his thin, well-defined face. His eyes were gleaming, most likely illuminated by the lights used to take the picture. He seemed so happy, perhaps it was because he was finally graduating, or maybe it was because he was expecting his first child with my grandmother. My mother was born when my grandparents were only 19. I don’t know how they did it, raising a child that young, but they managed to make it work. Alternatively, it could have been because he was enlisted in the army.
Just like most young men his age, my grandfather joined the army to fight for his pride in the Vietnam war. He explained that, while he joined towards the closure of the war, he was still affected by it. He knew many friends who died in the war efforts, and a dozen more who suffered a physical or mental injury. He sighed as he pulled out a picture of him, just a bit older, in full army uniform. He wore a service dress uniform, a stark white jacket that created the illusion of broader shoulders, and a peaked cap laced with gold and navy blue rested upon his head. His hair was shaven, a distinct contrast between the long, thick hair he once donned.  His face was void of all emotion, and his eyes seemed duller. It was unnerving, or strange, to say the least, looking back and forth between the two photographs.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, my grandfather turned to a section featuring more modern photos, and I began to truly appreciate him for what he’s done for me, and for my family. He had always tried to make me smile on my darkest days, gave up smoking for my health and his, took my grandmother’s place when she passed away, took me for car rides and ice cream trips when my anxieties took the upper hand. He had been through much, and even though his hair isn’t blonde or thick anymore, and his body isn’t as fit as it had been, he’s still a brave, caring young man who’d do anything to help his family.

When the winds had finally abated and the rain dwindled, my grandfather drove me home in his convertible, warm air whipping my face and knotting my hair. I clutched the photos he had given me in my hand, and retained a newfound respect for my grandfather in my heart.