A Memorial Weekend

Friday afternoon, I've had that itchy "just get away from work feeling" for quite sometime! That awareness usually leads to me being in a close relationship with Ol' Blue (my pickup) just driving around. Something about digging around on the radio finding a good song, windows down air blowing around, and "dropping the hammer" makes me feel more independent and livelier than the sometimes mundane routine called "my life." This day it involved sneaking out of work firing up Ol' Blue, and getting down the road. However, due to some other plans and a requirement to be at a meeting from 6-10 that night. I naturally of course found myself in the vicinity of the meeting I had to attend, but way too early. So with time on my hands and way too many devilish thoughts in my head I chose to visit my fathers grave.

My father is buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery. He is buried there because my father was a soldier, a veteran, and because he served with distinction and honor. But, the service to his country cost him in many ways. Many years ago, during an appointment with a doctor, somebody made the mistake of handing me an old medical dossier. I remember it was thick, the outside looked like it had been stained with drops of something dark at one point but had faded over time. Of course the kid who inherited his fathers fascination with reading anything opened it up to read the contents. What I read in those following passages has stayed with me forever. It was the medical history of my fathers Army career. I remember reading about the 15-17 GSW and wondering what GSW meant. This was before it was a common term on any evening tv program. I read about grenade shrapnel in his stomach, how he had lost part of lung, a shoulder blade, and was retired from military service with a 100% medical disability.
He spent countless time in a hospital bed, at George C. Beech. Approximately seven years being rehabilitated. However, those wounds would last him a lifetime. They would come and go in the forms of extreme pain, paralysis, and nightmares so black, cold, and lifelike that they could test the sanity of the sanest.

Dad never talked much about his service. The medals were buried deep and he never mounted them for others to see, or tell the glorious stories of how they were earned. I do know that I looked up to my father and I knew he was special. Maybe because growing up my biggest fear was the dark, but my old man never feared the dark. To me that was cool, I always wanted to find out if I was as tough as Dad. To this day I measure myself against everything he went through and overcame to be the man he was. I've never been shot at, wounded in combat, or had to relearn every muscle in my body, or rebuild every relationship I had known. I measure myself against that...that if the toughest thing I ever have to worry about in my life is paying bills...then life is pretty easy for me and nothing I'll come against will ever be the mountains my father had to climb to go on with his life.


I know he joined the service as a way out. Like many of the kids we see today he needed something better than what was going on, and being raised in a military family he saw a place that could provide for him and help him plan out his future. He just didn't know how bad things would get before they were good. He never regretted his service, in fact I speak with veterans and servicemen alot, and not many offer a bad word for the commitment they make or the time spent. However, they all agree Uncle Sam could do a little better job.


My drive through the cemetery is different today. It's not deafening silent like the legions of crisp marble white headstones usually are when I visit. It's usually me and Ol Blue with a few scattering of vehicles, but today is bustling with activity. Boy scouts and girl scouts in their stiff starched uniforms with scout masters busy watching over their actions. JROTC cadets are walking about directing traffic, and escorting the elderly. The main rotunda is surrounded with bleachers for the weekend activities. Being raised a respectful Aggie I cringe as my Ol Blue barely scrapes past parked cars and straddles the concrete curb, but trudgingly I make my way to a spot I know so well. I couldn't tell you the section or row number, what I can tell you though is my destination is fifty sobering paces from the steering wheel to the stone that bares his name. It's a somber place for me to visit and it has changed through the years. The final resting place of an old soldier has gone through several metamorphosis over time. From caliche with small name markers to the arrival of gently rolling grass and that signature headstone. The headstone itself since being placed has been rearranged and realigned still no matter its appearance the contemplation it brings me is always awe inspiring. Today, on this hot humid Friday afternoon I was awed again.

I don't care what your belief is about war. You have to honor the American soldier! Those men and women who have served in the armed services deserve this day. They make a sacrifice that most of us will never endure or understand. We'll never walk in their shoes or carry their burden nevertheless we can commemorate the accomplishment, the loyalty, and the commitment it takes to be a United States soldier. And for the few forsaken who will never come back, those that gave the ultimate sacrifice I am so thankful for you. Without someone willing to stand on the line and say evil will not cross then we would never be free. Memorial Day is for you and I hope wherever you are that you know we are proud of your service and are thankful for all that you do.

Do your part to thank a soldier. There are alot of ways to help out. Donate needed items, visit a veteran's hospital to hear their stories, or stand silently amongst a crowd of marble white headstones and say thanks. Whatever, you do just know that you couldn't be who you are without them.

Hope you enjoyed your Memorial Day.
Thanks
LB