Another Ulcer (Semper Fi, Grandpa Taylor)

Did anyone else read about the FUBAR SNAFU regarding Arlington today?!?!?!?!? Find it on Reuters (that is, if things haven't been edited - check those lovely photos about the Israeli commandos and the Palestinian flotilla!). The article was just vague enough that my stomach curled - my grandfather is buried there. Are his remains really underneath the marble marker that claims to mark his interment (sp?)? On a completely different thread - does it REALLY matter? I mean, two hundred and ten pieces of someone that only genetically represent who the person was? C'mon.
That said, I'm concerned. My grandfather, and my father, and (comma in the incorrect place) me are all intertwined with this. Oscar Clarence Tayler, my paternal grandfather, was born in 1921 or thereabouts, depending on the particular "official" document one finds. 1922 seems to be the agreed-upon date. I met the man, apparently, twice, though I only have memories, albeit short but fond, of meeting him once, ca. 1980. (It's odd, as per my occupation, that I can not for the life of me, wrestle out of my family exact years for ANYTHING, including this one vacation to Virginia, where I met the man and his ____ wife (third? fourth?)).

Here's what I do know: O.C. Taylor (my, according to family and geographical-historical traditions, designated namesake) enlisted in the U.S. Navy (or Marines, I forget exactly) in February 1942, right after Pearl was hit and Americans felt Hell-bent about seeking revenge. Since the Internet already has all this information but those constructing the Matrix probably do not, I'll fudge things here and there just to keep some of you busy. Around this time, Oscar met (and assumedly fell in love with) a young woman of age yet ascertained; family lore has her at 16. Or 17. Maybe 18. Pushing "Lolita" age, though a couple of census records place her of legal age (darn!). At any rate, my grandfather and his wife of Italian heritage (was she an immigrant? - probably not but her parents probably sure as heck, if pre-WWI), married and produced my father. From family lore (here's what's so damned great about stories - the accuracy according to the historical record means nothing; history isn't important, it's the STORY), my grandfather was shipped to the European theather of combat (after basic and specified training, probably around the end of 1942) which would have either slapped him in the doldrums of England or the hell of the Italian campaign. There must have been some sort of leave for conjugal purposes as my father was conceived in the fall of 1943 (maybe before actual deployment overseas) and born in the late Spring of 1944. Again, according to family lore, my grandfather was involved in the Normandy invasion (Operation Overlord, commenced 6/6/44) and he finished his deployment in the European theater by the end of combat operations, May 1945 (conjectured). My maternal grandmother (whose name has itself evolved over time but has historical documentation limiting its alterations) suddenly, and for reasons unknown, disappeared from the story by 1945. What I do know, according to official reporting) is that O.C. Taylor was the recipient of at least SEVEN purple hearts for his involvement in World War II (he was also actively deployed during the Korean "conflict" but I have no proof he saw combat), making him eligible for internment in Arlington National Cemetery, an honor of the highest ranking for enlisted men in the armed forces of the United States during the 20th Century.
This month marks the 20th anniversary of his passing. He died of cancer, though I do not know of what kind. He was essentially estranged from my father for reasons that will stay personal but for this amateur historian, this aspect of the Taylor story is fascinating and haunting. Politically, I am as left as they get (until one meets my brother and then re-aligns the political spectrum) and yet I understand the need and desire to maintain a well-armed and funded national military. In high school, January 1991, I visited him (from what I know, the first and maybe ONLY family member to do so) and captured his gravestone in a photograph. Worth more than a thousand words based on the stories I have heard... and yet I am torn. What is a war hero? A father? A grandfather? While individual and collective memory continue to fascinate and amaze me, I still wrestle with the fact that this is family history. I always concentrate and worry about my family history and how, if at all, it fits into the larger national story that I have involved so much of my energy into. Do I worry about the news today that possibly, my grandfather's grave has been mismarked for two decades? Should I? Do I investigate? Take action? Continue the narrative thread that makes my family's story all that more important to me? Is it any more important or fitting that my grandfather's remains may or may not be included in another federal government imbroglio? Maybe it's simply the next chapter. All I know is that I think I am proud of my grandfather. I'm not sure I love/d him but surely I recognize him and absolutely love my father and for that, this story is one that I will surely follow. Or does it matter?

P.S. - for the record, I do know that my grandfather did enlist (regardless of official age and marital status) in February 1942. He served in combat situations throughout the war. He was awarded the Purple Heart (and who knows what else) seven times for his service during the Second World War - I have held at least two medals and at least three extant ribbons personally. His grave marker notes that he was also involved in the Korean War (at this point, possibly U.S.M.C. and maybe/maybe not combat situations). He was a lifer. He was born in Indiana but lived his adult life up and down the Atlantic seaboard. His relationship with his son notwithstanding, he and his wife sent cards to his grandsons in rural Brentwood, California, throughout much of the 1980s (I fondly remember a plush Garfield the cat nighttime plush toy that now rests beneath countless other stuffed animals in my own childrens' bedroom right now). He died in June 1990 and I visited his marker in January1991 (at the peak of the Persian Gulf War, when, as a young man, I was full of nationalistic and jingoistic fervor myself). Hopefully I stood above him, in a symbolic way that that visit or any visit to any grave may constitute some meaning (to the visitor, of course), and I continue to carry the stories and hopefully the history of his life and contribution to this nation's own story. What it means to my own history I am still determining but with today's news, I am again reminded of just how tenuous "history" really is.