Judy Genandt

Books by Judy Genandt

"As a reader, I want to know why a character speaks or behaves in a certain way. I want to know the dynamics of his life, which events have shaped his personality, what circumstances have brought him to where he is today. As a writer, I try to provide that interaction between characters for my readers. My focus is always to offer education, enlightenment, and entertainment."

~ Judy Genandt~

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Watch for "A Port in the Storm"

due to be released in October.

For information go to:

http://cornucopiapress.com/authors/judy-genandt/

and then click on this interview

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Author's Interview at

http://writersmanual.com/show.php?id=2&uid=335

Also: Readers' Event, photos, and information at

www.schaumburgscribes.org

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Commemorative

In Loving Memory

Harold R. “Hap” Genandt

June 29, 1924 – August 30, 2008

I always likened him to the Duke.

Dad looked a little like Big John Wayne, walked a lot like Big John Wayne, and embodied many of the same values (at least, those that came across on the silver screen): love of country and love of family, a resolute work ethic, cheerfulness at almost any cost, honor and integrity and dependability.

Which is not to say we never butted heads. Of his three kids, I was most like him in looks, personality, and temperament. And, as the oldest, it was my job to pave the way for my younger sister and brother, all the while living up to Dad’s ultra-high expectations. Like many parents, he wanted me to follow his dreams.

Dad and Mom, children of the Depression and of “The Good War”, became part of that select group known as “The Greatest Generation.” Without romanticizing their virtues or downplaying their flaws, yet they were cast from a unique mold, which helped them to not only survive but triumph over worldwide cataclysms that might have broken lesser humans.

He was a strong man. Even, toward the end a little stooped, a little shaky, his strength still shone through—not so much by then a physical quality as simply part of his nature. In his heyday, those big powerful hands could easily assemble a haphazard pile of dusty bricks or stone into symmetrical perfection: walls, walks, fireplaces (his specialty). Today, a multitude of houses and buildings sprinkled throughout the area surrounding his hometown of Lanark offer testimony to his craft. His legacy.

As the world spun itself through a 1930’s economic downturn into the beginnings of a global conflict, Dad, youngest of a large brood, had no choice but to leave school early, a couple of years before graduation. His various jobs, mostly on neighboring farms, helped him save enough money to buy an old used Chevrolet—for $35!—that he used to tool around town and visit Mom, whom he had met on a blind date.

Much later, even while working to support his wife and three children, he completed his studies through a correspondence course, because he so highly valued the benefits of education. It was a proud moment for him when he finally received his high school diploma. I don’t recall ever acknowledging that fact at the time. But I’m telling you now, Dad. I’m proud of you for what you accomplished.

His first “real” job was working as a munitions handler at the Proving Ground in Savanna (an ordnance depot where ammunition was stored in concrete “igloos”). From there, on April 16, 1943,Dad went on to become a member of the U.S. Army. He was sent from Ft. Sheridan in Chicago to Camp Haan in Riverside, CA. He was trained in learning code—first handwritten, then typewritten—at Radio Operators School. During my own high school business classes, I felt a little miffed to realize that my father was able to type faster—and more accurately—than I could.

After dating Miss Harriet B. Sweitzer (of the Applegate clan some of whom had pioneered west on the Oregon Trail), for some four years, Dad and Mom were married on January 29, 1945, in one of the worst snowstorms to hit Northern Illinois in years.

His military career sent him to a number of Army Camps and Forts, from California to Texas to South Carolina. Since by late spring/ early summer he was due to be shipped out again from Ft. Jackson, my pregnant mother and her father boarded a train in Savanna and headed southeast to visit him. For her return trip Mom took a bus home—by herself. Not surprisingly, she was sick along every stomach-lurching mile of the Smokey Mountains.

What incredible fortitude for these two young “country” people, who had never before traveled more than a few miles away from home, to crisscross America during such a time of uncertainty! The war forced ordinary citizens like my parents to step way outside their ordinary existence and perform feats they simply accepted as something needing to be done, feats that we might consider extraordinary.

It wasn’t until a few years ago, when some questions were raised about the giant furry mittens in Dad’s “war trunk”, that I found out he had been flown to the islands of Attu and Adak, off the coast of Alaska, where he served in 1945 as troubleshooter for radio problems.

With World War II finally over, Dad was officially discharged from Uncle Sam’s ranks in December, 1945, and made his way back to Illinois, where he collected his family and began building a home and a life.

Dad fervently believed in the importance of volunteering. At Cherry Grove Church of the Brethren, he added his strong bass voice to the choir, served as Councilman, taught Sunday School, worked with the Youth Group, and handled all the cemetery maintenance. (We kids helped with those chores.) From 1988 until 2004 his talents and abilities benefited Freeport Hospital, where he accumulated 3,060 hours given to others. For a number of years he also served with the Carroll County Sheriff’s Patrol, a merging of duty and friendship which meant so much to him.

As the patriarch of our family, Dad stepped happily and willingly into the role.

Little did I know that he was also the glue that held our family together.

Severe health problems had plagued him for the past few years: emphysema, a gallant but failing heart kept beating with an ICD (implanted Cardioverter Defibrillator), a blood disease that left dark purple bruises on nearly every inch of his skin, last year an abdominal aortic aneurysm. He was growing thinner and frailer and weaker, and we knew it. But there was no way to stop the passage of time.

I called him later than usual the night before he died. My call woke him from a semi-sound sleep, and I apologized. He only said in his usual cheery way, “It’s always good to talk to you.”

Our last words were a shared “I love you.”