The notice came from my longtime friend Curt Goris by
e-mail.
”
The memorial service for my dad, George Goris
…
”
I just wanted to put my head down on the keyboard and cry.
The notice came from my longtime friend Curt Goris by e-mail. “The memorial service for my dad, George Goris … ” I just wanted to put my head down on the keyboard and cry.
I’d known George for 20 years or so from the Vets Hall in Gilroy, where I am a life member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. George was Commander of the American Legion, and later chaplain. He was a man of slight stature and mild voice; it always amazed me to hear his voice become Stentorian when he prayed aloud at post events.
The last few times I’d seen him, he was looking frail, and I knew he’d moved to a shared home with Curt and Wendy. I called Curt, and learned George’s life of 87 years had ended after a pleasant dinner party with family and friends the week of Christmas. He went to bed, and simply didn’t wake up. His obituary was printed in this paper and chronicled his accomplished life.
Knowing George as I did, he would object to the word “accomplished,” but he’s gone now and can’t complain, so I will use it, and it is quite accurate. George attempted to enlist in the Army at the start of WWII and failed the physical for (hilariously!) having an overbite. The Marines weren’t as selective, and drafted him. He was trained as an aircraft mechanic and rode out the war on a small carrier, a miserable duty station known to sailors and Marines alike as a “Kaiser coffin.”
George once described his job to me as a “knucklebuster.” He minimized his contribution, but the complicated military aircraft of the time took about three hours of maintenance for every hour of flight. Mechanics and aircraft crewmen were worshiped by their pilots, who knew that their lives were in the hands of the maintenance crew. That was typically modest George.
From 2002-2008 I was a member of Gilroy’s Memorial Day Parade Committee. Parade planning began in December. The first meeting was to decide what the theme of the parade would be, and also discuss who to ask to serve as Grand Marshal. I talked to George about his service several times without letting on why I wanted to know, and when I found out that he’d returned to the Marines after WWII to go to Korea, proposed his name to the committee. To my delight, he was selected, and I was chosen to ask him to serve.
To a man (and one woman) those asked have initially refused. The objections are always the same: “Hey, I just put on the uniform and went where they sent me, and did my job. Surely you can find a hero. Why me?” I then explain to them that their objection is exactly the point; ordinary people who do extraordinary things make great stories. Also, George was a Marine. I didn’t exactly wave the flag and speak of Iwo Jima, but I did say “look, my friend, a lot of your buddies are gone now and you have been asked to represent them. It’s Semper Fi time.”
So, he agreed and was Grand Marshal, sitting proudly in the back of a convertible with his grandchildren as Curt and Wendy drove. As he passed the reviewing stand, I saluted, and he returned the salute and hollered “Semper Fi, Bob!” Our WWII veterans are leaving us at the rate of about 1,300 per day. Only about 25 percent of the 14 million men and women who served are still with us. These are those who brought to a successful conclusion the most titanic conflict in history, and they really did save the world.
Were they ordinary? Most were, for the time. But they were “ordinary” in extraordinary times, and thus were extraordinary themselves.
I am of the opinion that the GI generation was the best since the patriots. I do not think we will soon see their like again, and George was one of them. Isn’t it amazing that our country produced MILLIONS of these people? Our city (and nation) is the poorer for his passing. That’s not a bad epitaph for anyone, is it? Farewell, George, and Semper Fi.
