Morris Thurston Blog

In my last blog entry I related some of the experiences of my father, Morris Alma Thurston, in World War II. Of course, the hardships of war were also felt by women, especially the wives and mothers of servicemen. My mother, Barbara Ashcroft Thurston, had married my father on July 8, 1941, five months before the attack on Pearl Harbor. She became pregnant with her first child (me) in early September 1942. Five months later, in February 1943, Morris received his notice to report for active duty as a Navy SeaBee in Norfolk, Virginia.

When the notice arrived, Barbara and Morris were living in an apartment in Morgan Hill, California, a little village about seventy miles southeast of San Francisco. Morris was working for the Soil Conservation Service and they had been married about nineteen months. They had been wildly happy during that time--Barbara said it was like an extended honeymoon. Morgan Hill was a country town in those days and the measured pace suited two people who had both grown up in farm towns. With the war raging in Europe and the Pacific they knew, of course, that Morris would eventually be called to active duty, but they had made the most of the time they had together.

When the orders arrived they packed their meager belongings--clothes, dishes, linens, card table, and a small lamp table--and shipped them to Barbara's parents' home in Hyde Park, Utah. Then they took the bus to San Francisco to buy Morris's uniforms. They didn't own a car.

“The War” and “Band of Brothers”

Dawn and I have been watching Ken Burns’ excellent new PBS documentary about World War II called simply “The War.” Burns and his co-director, Lynn Novick, have been working on the project for six years and the result is a 14 ½ hour, seven part series of images that are memorable, moving and graphic.

In this documentary we’re reminded again that that war is basically a young man’s game—young men under the control of a few old men. It takes the kind of disregard of danger that only the young have to staff a war machine. As one of the talking heads featured in “The War” said about his enlistment, “And then suddenly you could be a pilot or a submariner or an artilleryman or any damn thing, but it was something exciting and it was something adult. It has nothing to do with patriotism. It has nothing to do, really, with who the enemy is. It’s the opportunity to be somebody more exciting than the kid you are.”

The documentary also points up the inevitability of screw-ups in every war—ill-suited leaders, inadequate intelligence, ill-equipped troops.

It started as a typical September morning—the sun had just risen on what promised to be a warm California day. I was dressed in workout clothes—black Above-the-Rim shorts, a charcoal Nike t-shirt, white K-Swiss tennis shoes—almost ready to leave for the gym. I backed my car out of our detached garage, wheeled it around and eased up to the front porch to finish loading my lawyer clothes—suit, white shirt, tie, belt, dress shoes and sox. I was planning to drive to 24-Hour Fitness in Orange and work out. Then I would shower, change, and head down to my office in Center Tower, Costa Mesa and my law practice at Latham & Watkins. I had a federal copyright lawsuit that was occupying large chunks of my time and I needed to review some deposition transcripts.

Suddenly Dawn came running out of the house. Thinking I was leaving, she began waving her arms frantically. My first thought was that something terrible had happened—perhaps an injury to a family member.

I pushed a button and the window slid down. “Matt just called,” she said, the concern apparent in her voice. Instantly the thought flashed through my mind—had something happened to Quade, our five-week old grandson? It had been twenty-three years since we lost our daughter, Elise, to sudden infant death syndrome, but I still carried an anxiety about the safety of children that would surface at the least hint of danger.

“They’ve blown up the World Trade Center in Washington. I’m going to turn on the TV.” With that, Dawn ran back into the house.

Today is the final day of our one-week cruise in the Western Caribbean. It is a sea-day, always one of my favorites, and I’m borrowing David’s Apple MacBook to compose this entry. I decided not to bring my computer because I didn’t want to succumb to the temptation of spending too much time in our cabin writing. Since we brought our family with us, I wanted to maximize the time with them. Sort of like emptying the freezer of ice cream when you want to diet, I suppose.

Right: Morrie & Dawn

Dawn and I are relative newcomers to cruising. I took my first cruise last year, a fantastic trip on the Celebrity Millennium that began in Barcelona and ended in Venice. This year we sailed on the Caribbean Princess—a shorter and less interesting trip, but nice for family socializing. Our group included our four children, Matt, David, Ashley and Tyson, as well as Matt’s wife, Amy, and David’s wife, Melanie. Also on board were my sister, Mary Kaye Gardner, her husband, Terry, and their children and spouses, whose ages are generally the same as ours. All together we numbered sixteen. (The grandchildren were left behind.)

So why am I, an otherwise respectable sixty-something male, engaged in an activity as disreputable as blogging?

One reason is the power of deadlines.

I’ll explain. Dawn and I are constantly urging people to write their life stories—to leave a tangible record of their life’s experiences. The main excuse we hear for not writing is: “I can’t find the time.” (This is my own favorite, by the way.) I suspect the real reason is the absence of a deadline. We all find time to do the things that have to be done. I spent my entire legal career working against deadlines. If there’s a closing date, I’ll get it done.