I love this picture of my father's father (photo on the right), taken just before going off to fight for Germany, the country of his birth, in 1915. He was all of fifteen himself, and yet he looks much older to me in the photograph. He was fourty-three when my father was born in January of 1944.
My latest memories of my grandfather are of him telling stories of his experiences in the war. Like when he arrived somewhere in Europe by train and immediately had to jump underneath it with his mates because as soon as they had disembarked they fell under fire. I remember Grandpa laughing when he described the sound of bullets whizzing by and the sound they made against the side of the train. When he got home after his service in the war his mother wouldn't let him in the house because he had lice.
I have only the most pleasant memories of my grandfather. We used to go and visit him and my grandmother on Long Island where they owned a tiny house and a small piece of property. The grass was always neatly kept. There were several fruit trees in front, and a few tall spruce trees as well. In the back was a garden where they both spent a good deal of their time. My grandfather also spent a good deal of time working on his paintings, some of which now grace the halls of several Baurle-family homes. My grandpa died in 1980.
I also like this picture of my Dad (photo on the left), William Henry Baurle, taken when he was a strapping young lad in the United States Air Force. He's 61 now.
What I can't understand is: how in the hell did I wind up so damn ugly?
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