My father was an immigrant: short personal history of gratitude

Dutch East Indies. Indonesia. The Netherlands. Java. Holland. WWII. Pearl Harbor. 

I was born in 1941, a couple months before the attack on Pearl Harbor.
My father was not a US citizen at the time, did not enlist, and had emigrated from DEI via Holland as World War I was ending. His father had managed to bring the entire family to Ellis Island. My father recalls the bombing in Holland as a young boy. You don’t forget
those wars. It was a scrappy life, moving a lot, and working assignment to assignment.
My mother was a free spirit, yet kept a growing family together with homecooked meals, reading to us, and dreaming of travel, which fortunately the couple was able to do.
Mother had dropped out of college to marry, at age 18, taking a cross-country train
from New Jersey to California in 1937.  The ensuing conflict in Germany in the late 1930’s
impacted the world with the rise of totalitarianism. Working for KLM, enabled travel
in and outside of the country.  My mother was left to raise us kids. I recall the charcoal-
burning kitchen stove in New Jersey, beginning at an all-girls school, and playing
sports and unusual rainbow veils at school. When my father came home, it was like
Christmas, with gifts. I was a curious kid and asked a lot of awkward questions on God.
My younger brothers were active on the swings, sports, and average kids. I was
a bit eccentric. When WWII settled in 1945, opportunities to move arose.
I loved the open fields, dirt roads, and the dairy behind the old wooden house. I’d help mother hang up the clothes on a line outside. Life continued to be scrappy for years, and never quite settled in. Even at my late age, that feeling persists. -end-