Memorial Day 2014

When I was a little girl we used to drive past a cemetery that looked much like the one above. I remember my father telling me it was especially for those who had served their country. I knew my father had served in WWII, which had ended less than twenty years earlier. There were black and white war movies on TV. I thought I knew all about war. Of course, I didn't.



I remember seeing my father's scar from a shrapnel wound he got during the Battle of the Bulge. I was about nine years old. I giggled and teased him about it, not really believing that my dad could have been wounded in war. Not my dad! He was such a jolly guy. He didn't talk much about being in the war, but now and then he would have a bad dream and wake up screaming. I still remember the sound of my mother's voice, a soft cascade of sweet murmurs, as she soothed him. It was my mother who explained that sometimes he would dream about the war.



If my father were still alive, I would give him one of those "big hugs around the neck" that he loved so much, and thank him from the bottom of my heart for his service.

Dad!