“I’m the luckiest guy you can possibly envision,” says Henry Walter, a resident of North Hill, the retirement community in Needham. He is talking about his experiences as an army officer in World War II. About to turn 86, he looks back on his military service as a time that brought him lifelong benefits.

He has summarized the events of his life in a private memoir of some 150 pages that has been read by family members. Stirred by a recent “Growing Older” column  focused on the wartime memoir of a Polish lawyer, he sent me a summary of his that covers six densely packed pages.

He was born in Vienna in 1916 and grew up in that city, though his father was a Czech citizen. Henry was a member of the Czech army when Hitler invaded and dissolved that force. Escaping across the border, Henry reached Poland and sailed from there to New York.

In 1941 he was drafted into the U. S. Army, eventually becoming an officer with the Tenth Mountain Division. Soon, however, he was transferred to s newly created army branch – Military Government. Taking part in the invasion of Normandy, he landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day plus 1, wading to shore through waist-deep water. Once in France, he began functioning as a civil affairs officer, helping to evacuate French civilians from the areas in front of American battle lines.

After many other adventures, some of them extremely hazardous, Henry took part in the Battle of the Bulge, crossed the Rhine at Remagen, and eventually ended up in southern Bohemia as the war in Europe came to an end. He then served as chief military government official in a small county of Bavaria before returning to the U.S.

This brief summary leaves out many details that enrich Henry’s account of his wartime life and the period following VE Day. Most important among these events was his meeting Ruth Sumers, a former Navy officer, whom he met traveling in Europe and married in 1947.

Looking back at this period, Henry Walter most values his marriage and his rapid rise in military rank until he retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. This military experience made him eligible for the GI Bill covering his graduate studies at Harvard and setting him on his career path.

Asked about present-day Germany, Henry says: “It seems like quite a different country than it was in World War II.” But he is not surprised because he regards Germans as “very intelligent people.” And he feels proud about his role in Germany’s restoration: “We played a very important role in that.”

Though he has kept his uniform, he has never marched in a veterans’ parade. But he feels patriotic, especially valuing “knowledgeable and courageous people who speak up for justice.”

Another person who comes to mind, in the week when we celebrate Veterans’ Day, is the late Celia McLaughin. Her daughter, Pam McLaughlin, a resident of Somerville, has written about her mother’s wartime years in a small book published last July and entitled “Celia: Army Nurse and Mother Remembered.” Making abundant use of wartime letters from her mother, Pam McLaughlin shares the experiences of this army nurse who served in the North African campaign and later in Italy.

A native of Tamworth, New Hampshire, Celia trained as a nurse at Hale Hospital in Haverhill. Joining the Army in 1942, she was sent to North Africa where she endured difficult conditions, such as 140-degree temperatures. Later, based in the outskirts of Naples, she cared for sick and wounded soldiers in the Italian campaign. Of her work, she said in an understatement: “It’s not a bad record because we’ve cared for over 3,000 patients.”

In reflecting on her mother’s mentality at that time, Pam says: “Her thoughts were always of home, of the White Mountains, and of Lake Chocorus in which she used to swim.”  

Not until the last ten years of Celia’s life did she talk with her daughter about her wartime experiences. Those conversations solidified her appreciation of her mother as a person: “I always remember her so strong, so solid, so faith-filled.”

By the 1970s, her daughter began to gather her letters because of their historical value. “This is a piece of American history,” she told herself, “and I just can’t let it go to waste.”

In a recent letter to me, Pam writes: “We must remember our veterans and what they sacrificed for our nation,” I agree and in that spirit have shared the stories of these two very different veterans of World War II. Pam also emphasizes that the veterans who have grown old and vulnerable deserve our best care and treatment.

Henry and Celia in their distinct ways show the devotion to duty that brought eventual victory over the forces of tyranny. Along with the millions of others who have served in America’s wars they deserve credit for bravery and commitment.

Richard Griffin

Do you believe that people who are stinkers at age 30 will still be stinkers at age 80? I, for one, don’t want to but the best scientific evidence suggests that we should.

This evidence comes from the Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Human Aging. This fall, at a week-long seminar for journalists working the age beat, I visited Baltimore and learned more about this celebrated study.  

Begun in 1958 (three years before the California Angels were born), this study calls itself “America’s longest-running scientific study of human aging.” The study is based on 1,200 men and women volunteers who range from their 20s to their 90s. A program of the National Institute on Aging, the BLSA is funded by our tax dollars and would appears to be a sound investment.

What “longitudinal” means is that the same people take part over the period of the study, although individuals are free to drop out at any time. This contrasts with research focusing on a series of different people and is considered more productive and reliable by the social science community.

During the first 40 years, researchers reached significant findings about a range of physical and psychological issues. Of these, I will consider only three.

As indicated above, the first asserts the stability of people’s personalities in adulthood and later years. “Analyses of long-term data show that adults as a whole change little after age 30,” the researchers state. They makes this concrete by adding: “People who are cheerful and assertive at age 30 are likely to be cheerful and assertive at age 80.”

My reason for feeling reluctant to accept this finding is that it smacks of predestination. What about free will so prized by human beings? Why must we continue be nasty toward other people just because we started out that way? Cannot Scrooge be converted and become a nice guy in time for later-life Christmases?

The scientists take some of the curse off their finding by strategic use of the phrase “as a whole.” Thus they do not assert the finding applies to absolutely everybody. They seem willing to admit exceptions.

The example they give, of course, would incline many to favor the thesis. Who, starting out as cheerful and assertive, would not wish to continue so in late life? Even there, however, I would incline toward the side of freedom: should not old people retain the freedom to become more misanthropic if they wish? After all, misanthropy is frequently recognized as a factor in helping some of us survive to longevity – the tough, grumpy old man or woman phenomenon.

The second finding of the BLSA researchers goes like this: “Older people cope more effectively with stress than young adults.”

This one fits in with my experience. The older people I run into tend to be remarkably resilient in coping with the insults, small and large, that so often come with age. The traditional view held elders to be rigid and lacking in coping abilities, but the Baltimore scientists suggest this generalization may not hold water.

My only problem with this finding is possible stereotyping of young people. Everyone knows young adults who cope courageously with illness and other threatening issues. The BLSA, in fact, recognizes how, health aside, older people “experience less stress than younger adults (who must juggle work, marriage, and children.)”

The third general proposition from BLSA asserts “Happiness is more predictable from a person’s disposition than from the special events he or she encounters.”

People often assume happiness to come from events such as getting a raise, staying healthy, or taking a dream vacation –  – three cited by the study. But the researchers have found psychological well-being to come from character rather than circumstances.

“People quickly adapt to both good and bad circumstances,” they assert, “so the impact of special events can be fleeting; but people who are sociable, generous, goal-oriented, and emotionally stable consistently report higher levels of happiness and lower levels of depression than others.”

Yes, but I wonder how many of the 1,200 men and women studied in BLSA live in desperately poor circumstances, without adequate financial resources for a decent life. It would be a mistake to think happiness out of reach for such people, but its availability cannot be easy or assumed, however stable their character may be.

And, again, this finding sounds a bit deterministic as if a person’s character is not subject to change. Is it not possible for people as they grow older to modify their outlook on the world and let their new experiences work a transformation in some of their basic attitudes?

I do much welcome emphasis on the importance of character in the life of older people. As the Jungian analyst James Hillman says:  “Without the idea of character, the old are merely lessened and worsened people and their longevity is society’s burden.”

But despite quibbles like mine, the three findings discussed here point toward the dignity of later life and the value of core personality.

Richard Griffin

Last week, before an audience of some 50 people at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education, I had the chance to talk about aging with theologian Harvey Cox. Now age 73, Cox has established a wide reputation as teacher, writer, and spiritual leader. Our conversation demonstrated once again why he is so highly regarded by his own students and other people interested in religious issues.

My first question wondered how my friend’s spiritual life has changed over the years. Some of the answer I already knew because Professor Cox, in his most recent book “Common Prayers: Faith, Family, and a Christian’s Journey Through the Jewish Year,” tells of the joy he has found through sharing in the Jewish tradition of his wife and teenage son.

When younger, he felt suspicious of the external marks of religion, but now he has come to appreciate the “tangible signs of the spiritual realm.” The Jewish faith, based on a calendar of events rather than a creed, now speaks to him. So does the Mezuzah that now hangs on the door of his house. “Thank God, I’m home,” he says to himself as he touches this object on arriving back from a hard day of work.

My second inquiry raised a difficult question, even for a theologian. I asked my friend how his ideas about God have changed. In response he said: “When I was younger, I thought I knew a lot more about God than I do now.” This theologian went on to explain how he learned from his teacher at Harvard Divinity School, Paul Tillich, that the biggest mistake is to take religious images literally. God remains beyond all imagery, even Tillich’s famous description of God as “the ground of being.”

I next asked Cox how he responds to the “small insults” of later life, the pains and other sufferings one encounters along the way. He calls them “a drag,” and often feels resentful of them. But when, because of eye surgery, he had to lie on his stomach for two weeks, he experienced warm feelings stirred by friends coming by to talk with him and offer their support.

About new sources of creativity in later life, Cox feels convinced of their power to preserve the health of our brains. He recommends doing something that “has not been part of your repertory,” such things as writing poetry or taking up a new language. This latter is what he is doing as he studies Islam and tries to learn some Arabic.

My question about meditation and contemplation evoked some more of Cox’s spiritual history. Decades ago he felt drawn to the Tibetan Buddhist tradition and especially its practice of contemplative practice. The person assigned to teach him meditation was Allen Ginsburg, the famous Beat poet, whom Cox calls “a terrible teacher.”

In time, he was referred to the Benedictines and, for years, has made it a point to stay twice a year at Glastonbury Abbey in Hingham, making his own retreats. Another vital element in Cox’s spiritual practice is his family’s weekly observance of the Sabbath. Starting on Friday evening, he shuts off the computer and abstains from doing any business through Saturday. In this weekly practice he finds great spiritual value.

A member of the audience asked our guest about “the next thing” –  – what is likely to be most significant in the near future. Cox believes it may be religious diversity, now all around us. He cited the answer given by one of his undergraduate students from whom he had asked his reasons for taking a course in world religions. “My roommate is a Muslim, my chemistry partner is Jewish, my girl friend is Buddhist,” the student repied.

Another person asked about the connection between science and spirituality. In response, Professor Cox shared what he learned from the late evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould when they taught a course together. “I’m grateful for what science has done because it has made religion more honest,” he replied. The other main impact of science has been to raise questions that science itself is incapable of answering, moral issues that confront everyone.

A woman sought more details about the pilgrimage that Cox had referred to earlier. He then told of visiting the South where he had been active in the 1960s in the struggle for civil rights. Traveling with his 16-year-old son, Cox wanted to introduce the boy to a part of American history that looms large in his own life also. As he showed his son the jail in North Carolina where he was held for a few days, the excitement of that time came back. He looks back with some longing to an era in our history when people were empowered to fight for something vitally important.

This pilgrimage struck me as a fine response to an question many older people ask themselves: How can I pass on to my children and grandchildren my legacy of precious personal experience?

Anyone inclined to judge theologians out of touch with real life has obviously never talked with Harvey Cox.

Richard Griffin

In my personal files there is a postcard that I count as a precious possession. It was sent from Rome by my father in March 1939 to my mother at home in Watertown. The message did not go beyond the conventional: a few words about the weather and looking forward to the trip back to Boston. Nonetheless, for me it holds historical meaning.

My father had traveled to Rome in order to cover the election of a new pope. The election qualified as big news, especially in Catholic Boston. But getting there had also been a matter of widespread interest to readers of the Boston Post, the large newspaper which employed my father as a reporter.

The story of getting there centered on the archbishop of Boston, William Cardinal O’Connell (often referred to as “Gangplank Bill,” for his frequent vacations by ship). Twice before, in 1914 and 1922, he had failed to reach Rome on time for the elections of popes Benedict XV and Pius XI, so he was especially anxious not to miss this one.

He wanted to arrive at the Vatican before the group of 62 cardinal electors was sealed behind closed doors. The only passage then available, in those days before commercial air travel had become common, was on a ship of the Italian line, the Saturnia, sailing out of New York.

Two weeks after leaving North America, the Saturnia reached Algiers where the cardinal and his party transferred to another Italian ship, the Vulcania. This liner arrived at Naples, two days later, enabling O’Connell to reach Rome on March 1 just in time. Each day from shipboard my father would dispatch a cable back to his paper in Boston detailing the cardinal’s passage and informing readers about the suspenseful chances of beating the Vatican deadline.

Later, O’Connell narrated these events in a privately printed book entitled “A Memorable Voyage.” There he simply refers to Mr.Griffin and his colleagues from two other Boston newspapers as “genial correspondents.” About the papal election itself, he supplies only some ceremonial details, leaving out anything about the actual deliberations.

The choice of the successor to Pius XI would come as no surprise to readers of the Boston Post. By virtue of an extensive tour of the United States in 1936, this Vatican insider was well known to the American cardinals, other clergy, and the American public as papabilis (pope-able.)

This election of Pacelli would prove fateful. The outbreak of World War II a few months later ensured the importance to the world of this new pope. In particular, his stance toward the Jews in their hour of mortal peril would become highly controversial and remains so to this day. Pius XII, as he became known, still has his determined critics for his alleged failure to speak out and act forcefully to save the European Jews from destruction, but he also has his defenders.

Though I appreciate having the postcard in my files, seeing it also causes me some pain. It serves, after all, as a reminder of an important personal fact: I never once asked my father about his experiences traveling with Cardinal O’Connell and covering the election of Pius XII.

True, I was only eleven years old when my father went on that historic trip. My not having then talked with him about his adventures does not surprise me. But that I never did any time afterward now seems to me astonishing. My father was witness to other dramatic historical events but I never got to hear from his lips anything of them either.

As time went on, and I entered into my teenage years, World War II fascinated me. I followed the battles and other military news every day and was rabidly interested in the progress of Allied forces. News about the Catholic Church also became important to me as I grew older. Still, I did not ever ask my father about his impressions of Pacelli or his appraisal of the church’s stance toward the two warring sides.

Perhaps there is something providential about young people not being able to talk to their parents or even to listen with interest to their parents’ experiences. Maybe they would not mature as distinct personalities if events in their elders’ lives impinged too strongly on them. In any event, I could not rise above my own narcissistic self enough to take in what my father could have told me of his life.

At age 21 I was to leave home and the world in search of God. That leaving would deprived me of the opportunity to talk with my father, adult to adult. And when I was only 25, my father died.

I often fantasize about talking with him at my present age. Now I could ask him about that fateful papal election and about many of the other significant events he wrote about as a journalist. Maybe I could listen now with the understanding and sympathy that age has brought.

Richard Griffin