Memorial Day is a time for remembering the men and women who died while serving in our nation's armed forces. Every year, as I pay respect to those fallen, I’m also reminded of my grandfather, who we lovingly called “Poppy.”
Poppy served in World War II, and I’ve previously honored him on other occasions with an
excerpt from his own diary of his experiences in the war. Among those experiences, he fought in the Battle of the Bulge and endured things I could never even imagine. And like so many others in his generation, he lost friends to the war, men who made the ultimate sacrifice. Just as many did in wars before and after this.
When I was a child, there were many times I helped Poppy put up the flag on the front porch of my grandparents’ home. It was something he did for specific holidays – Memorial Day, Independence Day, Flag Day, Veterans Day. For me, those days seemed all about parades and such, and I wasn’t really as much aware as a child of the true importance of such days.
But as silly as my grandfather often was with us as kids, I’d always remembered that there was something more solemn in his nature whenever he put up that flag, especially on Memorial Day. Once the flag was up and flapping in the breeze, he would stand back and seemed to reflect for a moment or two.