My great-uncle Roger died recently

And my uncle Jeff has done an outstanding job of eulogizing him.

My grandmother, Audrey, moved from England to the United States with my grandfather, Bernie, just after World War 2. Ever since, Audrey's kids and grandkids haven't had much interaction with the rest of her family, save for occasional trips across the pond in either direction.

As a result, I never knew Roger, and have only met a handful of the rest of my grandmother's family. Which is sad, because reading Jeff's account, I'd very much like to get to know that side of my own family better.

But it's also amazing to me, the difference between my grandmother and myself. If I'd have lived through what she did, I'd never stop telling anyone who'd listen about it. In contrast, Audrey has only ever briefly discussed the subject with me, and doesn't ever seem to be too excited to go into it. Which is perhaps because, unlike me, she's known real hardship first-hand, and that kind of thing is always much more exciting and glamorous in one's imagination than in reality.