I can't say that I really knew him

I can't say that I really knew my Uncle Bill - my father's brother. He was an intimidating figure to me in my childhood, and made even more exotic because of his wife, Gudrun, who he'd met while serving in the U.S. Army in Germany and convinced her to move home with him.

If my memories of family stories serve correct, she didn't speak English when she arrived, and their union caused quite the stir. She was, and remains, drop-dead gorgeous with an accent that captivated at least one little redneck girl who had yet to wander far from the Clay-Greene-Sullivan county confines of Indiana.

He rejoined the Army after a short stint home, went to Officer Candidate School, flew helicopters in Vietnam where he earned the Bronze Star and probably a chest of other medals (He rarely discussed his service) and traveled the world as he advanced to the rank of Colonel. He passed away last week after his last battle, this one with Parkinson's disease. 

I hope you have time to meet him and his family through this riveting video produced by his granddaughter, Nico Murphy (Sonja's daughter) with colorization assistance from Mitch Murphy. 

You'll see some shots of his youth that you could easily confuse with Depression-era Appalachia. His voice is exactly as I remember him. Precise. Quiet. Measured. You know there's so much more behind them but he gives you only what he thinks is needed to answer the question. When he smiled, you knew you were getting something special. It transformed him into someone you wanted to know more deeply.

The video includes photos of my grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts frozen in black-and-white. There are great shots throughout his life where you can see the stunning Gudrun and their family, Sonja, Willie and Christina (who was once apparently mesmerized by her socks) as they grew.  You can also see that Gudrun earned her own set of accolades for all she did as a support system for her family and Uncle Bill's unit, wherever he was stationed at the time.

Christina and I are roughly the same age, and were thick as thieves during family visits. 

I remember Gudrun one when we probably eight or nine. She drifting into the kitchen at my grandmother's house one morning wearing this white, filmy robe with purple flowers on it, looking like something out of Hollywood.  

Uncle Bill might have been wearing camo pants and Army boots and jogging down the gravel road in front of her house in a big country square that included that straightway, north at the Bemis sisters' house and down a bit of Indiana 159, east at what is now 1350 South but was then just the Slab Road, south down the the gravel road before the Van Horn property and back on gravel to the road that that led back to grandma's house.

I don't know how long that route was, but he came back covered in rivulets of dust turned to mud, grinning at anyone who shook their heads at the idea of running in Indiana in August of your own volition and without a bear chasing you. Jogging had yet to reach our part of the state. 

Christina and I would have been waiting impatiently at the kitchen table for tiny fried pancakes from my grandma's iron skillet with the broken handle. And watermelon from the garden. And pretty much anything we wanted during those golden days of playing outside and coming in to watch Grandma's stories with her and bemoaning how unfair it was when Grandpa came home and took control of the television.

Chris and I kept touch through letters. Hers from all over the world and mine always from Indiana. We spent a great week or so in Hawaii back when we were in our 20s, and a family reunion at Aunt Shirley and Uncle Larry's years ago, but it's been far too long since we were in the same place at the same time.

The last time I saw Uncle Bill was at my father's funeral. He was the same, posture-perfect, honorable soldier figure. Maybe less intimidating but no less awesome. I don't know a lot about my family history, but this I know: Uncle Bill was a bona fide hero, and I'm certain that he and Gudrun had a positive effect on more than just me.