The gift of a letter, the wisdom of a man

I never thought too much about why my grandfather, Robert Mishkin, liked the saying "easy does it."

I should have, given the hardships he faced.

A sergeant first class and Army squad leader in the Korean War, he spoke little about what war was really like, choking up here and there when he did.

We knew the side of him who at 93 was quippy on Instagram, still filing our tax returns, and still driving, often to Trader Joe’s in Plainview, before he died on New Year’s Day.

Little did I know how much of life’s licks — and a lot of luck — were behind those sturdy "easy does its" that made him the pillar of our family throughout his decades in Bellmore and Woodbury.

In 2005, he set out to memorialize his service as the memories and foxhole flashbacks began to fade. He handed me a brown envelope, 18 pages of war stories, on my 16th birthday.

It was filled with quiet triumphs, buried tragedies, and life lessons that made clear why he carried such weight in my life.

There was a cold Christmas they made the best of; his Aunt Mary’s spoiled 5-pound salami that arrived many months late; a spy in their midst. There were the many friends he lost, for no reason.

I journeyed with him to Puget Sound, where he marveled at the beautiful coast, and received useful advice as he boarded a ship to Korea: Take the top bunk in a three-bed setup, a merchant mariner told him. "No one will throw up on you."

He understood the assignment: "I was the one responsible to get where we were going and coming back with [the] mission accomplished."

He was fearless. Or pretended to be. Once, he checked in on one of his guys to ask whether he was scared. "I am not scared as long as the guy telling me what to do isn’t scared more than me," the guy answered.

My grandfather wrote: "Little did he know!!!"

In life, he never questioned whether he was unequal or unworthy. He always had a seat at the table. He just sat down.

When he got to Korea, he realized he was the only Jewish soldier in his company. "If any new members came into the company they were forewarned not to pass any remarks about Jews. My platoon was respectful and protective of me," he wrote.

While defending a hill called "Old Baldy," a mortar landed near him and dented his bulletproof vest, near the heart. He got up unhurt and continued fighting. Many American soldiers died on Old Baldy. That bulletproof vest is the reason he and I are here, he liked to say.

The hardest hit to his heart, perhaps, was the death of Edie, his wife of 55 years, in 2009. For 12 years he put that vest back on, surrounding himself with family.

The letter is a gift.

"As I rode the LIRR to get home," he wrote, "I had tears in my eyes as I peered out the window at familiar landmarks. The original 17 of us that shipped out of leadership school made it back alive …"

He tried not to think about death. He just made it easy for those around him.

He wrote: "I was perhaps more afraid of not doing my job and protecting my buddies than being afraid of getting killed. It seemed to me that if you accept the fact that the chances of being killed are real — you can go on and function and not be in constant fear."

Easy does it, now.

This guest essay reflects the views of Newsday politics reporter Scott Eidler.