I am heavy hearted as I reflect on the meaning of Memorial Day.
My grandfather was my hero. He had such a spring in his step and twinkle in his eye, but there was more. Deep wounds could be seen when you got to know him better, not physical wounds, but heart and head wounds. He made it home safely from the battles on the Aleutian Islands where he fought next to his friends and troops, but many did not, including his cousin. He had several close calls with enemy fire and he could laugh about it, but looking back it wasn’t a true laughter it was more of a discomfort and unbelief about what he had witnessed. I know my feelings are shared by many who also had the opportunity to hear from parents, grandparents or great-grandparents about the wars of the twentieth century; rationing, loss of life, generosity, celebrations, change and experiences. Let us not forget those who have paid the ultimate price for our freedom and to learn from history.
I read an article recently that said, “every time a veteran dies a library burns.”
Thank you to every man, woman and family who serves our country. I am proud to be an American and thankful for the chance to reflect on those who came before me.