06/07/2026
A message from our Founder:
Yesterday, at Paradox Brewery, we had the privilege of hosting 100 year old World War II veteran John Neggia.
John lives only a few miles away, yet his journey took him farther than most of us can imagine. At 18 years old, he left a small town in upstate New York on Thanksgiving Day in 1944, boarded a ship bound for England, and ten days later found himself preparing for war. Within days, he was in France serving as an infantryman under General George Patton’s Third Army.
The timing of John’s visit was fitting. June 6 marked the anniversary of D Day, one of the largest military operations in human history. More than 156,000 Allied troops stormed the beaches of Normandy, supported by thousands of aircraft and ships. Young men from America, Britain, Canada, and many other nations stood shoulder to shoulder in defense of freedom. Many would never return home. Many who did carried those experiences with them for the rest of their lives.
We invited the community to join us. Veterans received free beer, food was served, and people gathered to listen. We expected to hear stories about war. What I did not expect was the lesson John would leave us with.
Throughout the afternoon, John kept returning to the same message. Be kind to people. It was not something he said once. It was woven into nearly every answer he gave. Coming from a man who had seen war, death, hunger, and destruction, those words carried far more weight than any speech ever could.
He remembered the children of Europe more than the battles. He described little girls standing quietly near American soldiers as they ate their K rations. They never begged. They simply stood there watching. The soldiers would eat what they could and hand the rest to the children, who would then move on to another soldier and wait patiently. Imagine being an 18 year old kid from upstate New York and seeing that kind of suffering for the first time.
What struck me was that even after eighty years, those children were still with him. John explained that when he returned home after the war, he would often think about them and cry. Not the battles. Not the enemy. Not the cold. The children. The image of hungry kids standing silently beside American soldiers never left him. Even now, a century into his life, the emotion was still there.
As the afternoon continued, there were moments when John would pause during an answer and visibly choke up. His voice would soften. His eyes would tell the story even when words could not. Eighty two years have passed since he served in Europe, yet the emotions remain close to the surface. It was a powerful reminder that while wars may end on paper, they never completely end for those who lived through them. Veterans from every generation carry memories, losses, and experiences that stay with them for the rest of their lives.
Someone asked how his parents felt when he left for war. His answer stopped the room. He explained that he had already lost one brother in the mines and another during the war. His parents believed he would either die in the mines or die for America. That was the reality of life for many families of that generation. Sacrifice was not a slogan. It was simply a fact of life.
John spoke about the bitter cold of the Ardennes. He said he shivered so hard he thought he cracked his teeth. He slept with nothing more than a blanket and a poncho. The days blended together in snow, mud, exhaustion, and uncertainty.
One story stood out. John was serving as point man, walking ahead of his unit when a rifle shot rang out. He immediately hit the ground. Another shot kicked dirt up beside his foot. He stayed perfectly still, pretending to be dead. Then the ground began to shake. At first he thought a German tank was coming to finish the job. The shaking grew stronger and closer. Waiting for the worst, he carefully opened one eye and realized the noise was coming from behind him. An American Sherman tank rolled forward and the commander looked down and yelled, “Let’s go, get on back.” The room laughed, but everyone understood how close that young soldier had come to never making it home.
There were many other stories. Crossing into Germany. Moving through shattered towns. Living in the field for weeks at a time. Going forty seven days without a bath and wearing the same clothes day after day. John explained that by the time they reached most towns, they were already destroyed. There were no cheering crowds. Patton kept pushing his men forward. It was always move, move, move.
One of the most touching moments came when someone asked how he carried those experiences for the rest of his life. John quietly explained that for many years he rarely spoke about the war, even with his wife. Like many veterans of his generation, he simply came home, went to work, raised a family, and moved forward. It was not until his children grew older and began asking questions that he finally started sharing his experiences.
To preserve those memories, he created a scrapbook filled with photographs, orders, medals, maps, and notes. On each page he carefully recorded where he was, what was happening around him, the weather, and the people he served with. He showed photographs, military orders, his Bronze Star, and other keepsakes that helped tell the story of a young American soldier far from home. It was more than a scrapbook. It was a piece of living history preserved by someone who had witnessed it firsthand.
Another person asked if he had ever traveled outside the country before the war. The answer was no. At eighteen years old he had barely traveled beyond his hometown. Then someone asked if he had ever returned to Europe. His face lit up. He said he had gone back many times over the years, visiting battlefields, towns, and places where he and his fellow soldiers had fought. Those trips continued until about 2007. By then, many of the veterans who had made those journeys together were aging. Some arrived in wheelchairs. Others required oxygen. Many could no longer travel. John said that was when they realized their time together was coming to an end, and eventually the trips stopped.
Another question from the audience was whether there were any war movies that accurately captured what he experienced. John’s answer was immediate and honest.
“I don’t watch war movies.”
He explained that they bring back too many painful memories. The battles, the suffering, the loss, and the things he witnessed as a young soldier are memories he still carries today. There was no bitterness in his voice, only honesty. For many of us, war is history, a documentary, or a movie on television. For John, it was real. The sounds, the faces, the fear, and the loss never completely disappear.
What struck me most was not the hardship, the danger, or even the history. It was John’s perspective. He lived a full life after the war. He worked hard, raised a family, helped people, and contributed to his community. He did not allow the war to define him, but he never forgot the lessons it taught him. Again and again he reminded us that kindness matters. It was almost as if he was handing us a responsibility. A man who had seen the worst that humanity can do spent his final message reminding us of the best we can be.
As I looked around the room, I saw young people listening. Really listening. I realized that these stories are disappearing. The men and women of the Greatest Generation are leaving us. Soon there will be no one left who can tell these stories firsthand.
That is why afternoons like this matter. We are not just preserving history. We are preserving wisdom.
John Neggia reminded us that courage matters. Sacrifice matters. Service matters. Yet after one hundred years of life and after surviving one of history’s greatest conflicts, the lesson he chose to leave behind was remarkably simple.
Be kind to people.
Maybe that is the wisdom America needs most right now.
Paul Mrocka
Veteran, Owner of Paradox Brewery
