Memorial Day

When my father received his draft notice, my grandmother cried. My father was an only child—my grandmother’s only son. She prayed for his safe return and sent him care packages—even though at no point in his tour of duty did he step foot off of the contiguous United States. In fact he rarely left the state of Georgia.

My father was a very smart man.

My father, unimpressed with the prospect having bullets targeted at him, successfully tried out for and became a member of the Army Band. And within the realm of musicianship, he took his smartness one step further---of all the instruments he played (saxophone, clarinet, flute and piccolo) he chose to play the piccolo—because it was small enough to fit in his pocket.

The only hand-to-hand combat my father saw was when someone dropped their instrument and my  father picked it up. The only war wounds he received were blisters. He saw no death; he only saw a cheering crowd waving American flags.

For years we teased him about being in the Korean War. To us it was two years of obligatory adult sleep-away band camp.

And yet my father loved the discipline of the Army. So later on in his life he joined the New York Guard and rose to Brigadier General.

My father was a good administrator.

When he died, he had a full military burial. He wears his uniform in his grave.

And I suppose despite the assigned task, all men (and women) who serve are war heroes. Each plays an integral part. Each serves their nation and contributes to a greater cause. My father served to raise morale, and entertain those who did see combat—he lessened their burden with song. He healed wounds with notes. He is no less a hero than the man who cooks the food,  issues the supplies or stands behind the gun. All players are necessary for the win—not just the players on the field.

And on Memorial Day we should do just that—remember the fallen and all who have served. We live in a free country. And it is free because every soldier did their part—and did it well.