Memorial Day / Decoration Day is the day we remember our lost and fallen heroes. As a kid I remember going with my parents to the local cemetery to see the small flags on all the veterans graves. Many thanks to every one who has paid the ultimate price for our freedom. -Dave
Going out to two of my fellow soldiers who made it through our deployment in Iraq but but was called home later ...Thanks to all military who paved the way. HOOAH!!!! Sgt John, Virginia Army National Guard
Sadly, the WWII vets are dying 900+ per month, we need to remind the younger generation why they have all their freedoms today. As an old Korean vet, I still marvel at what they accomplished in 4 short years 1941--1945.
In Flanders Fields by John McCrae, May 1915 In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Thinking of my dad (retired with 25 yrs of service) and all the veterans who sacrificed the time for us.
I sure all the vets, me included, appreciate the thoughts, but save them for Veteran's Day. Tomorrow is for those who never made it home
The sky over Vale this morning. Thank You dearly to all the vets that gave so much so we could have our freedom. GOD BLESS AMERICA & all it stands for.
A prayer for all that have served and did not come home, and for there loved ones that have suffered .
No offense intended but the only thing happy about Memorial Day is that we are still on this side of the grass and that isn't necessarily happy. Some of us are only on this side of the grass because someone else isn't. Ok sorry to ruin a well meaning thread. Just being honest.
Yep Carl you are absolutely right. I can't say for you but for a lot of us it is not a matter of the best man winning, at least not all the time.
I have posted this before, including last year, but to me it's worth reading again. It was written by Bill Shaffer, the scoutmaster of Troop 26 in Tulsa, OK. He was my scoutmaster years ago (and just celebrated 46 years as SM and still going strong). His parents lived in Bartlesville, OK when WWII started. His dad joined the Air Force, became a highly decorated pilot. The Bartlesville paper ran regular articles about how he accompanied and protected bombers on their runs. But his luck ran out, and he died when his plane was shot down. His body was never found. Bill never met his dad, as he was born after his father's death. What he wrote for Memorial Day (written in 2006) is worth reading, in my opinion. Memorial Day. A national holiday. Picnics. Ultimate frisbee. Hotdogs and burgers. Watermelon. Softball. People headed for the lake. Little kids in waterwings. Splashing and laughing. The grill. The backyard. Hope the weather cooperates with our plans for Memorial Day. People doing what they want. At what price? America. The superbowl of democracies. The best game in the world. Sure, some people have better seats but you can always work hard and upgrade. Everyone can dream about the luxury boxes. Some people have premium parking and some take the bus. Some have to walk. Sure, some people get too loud but the ushers handle that and protect your ability to see the game. There is a lot of stuff to buy out in the tunnels. You can't afford all of it but someday you might. There are two teams playing and you can support whichever one you want. You can yell and clap and stand and cheer. Somebody sings a song at the start of the game and some guys walk out on the field with some flags. But you don't have to sing. You don't even really have to stand up but most people do. Some even take their hats off. Its a great game, this superbowl of democracies. But as exciting as the game is, you can't get in without buying a ticket. But in America, we're lucky. We can walk right in because somebody else has already paid the price of the ticket. We ought to thank them but more often than not, we don't know their names. Out of sight, out of mind....right? We just walk right in and participate in the superbowl of democracy and don't give it another thought. Today, I wonder who bought my ticket. Sure, I like hotdogs and watermelon. I like to play horseshoes and football and softball. But I want to know who bought my ticket. You don't get anything in this world for nothing and I have a lot to be thankful for. Who paid? Who made it possible? Who bought the ticket for me? Was it a guy at Concord and Lexington. A guy who really wanted to be a farmer but decided to get his rifle down off the wall above the fireplace because he believed in a new idea for his children. Did he stand there in the street, watching the most powerful army in the world walking towards him, dressed in bright red with flags flying, pipes playing, sunlight gleaming off the tips of thousands of bayonets? Was he scared? Did he think of his family as he fell? Was it a guy in 1812? Watching from across the road as the White House burned. Do you think he wanted to keep this grand idea of democracy alive a little longer so that his children could live in freedom. Do you think he wondered if these men dressed in red coats would ever leave him alone to raise his family in peace? Was it a guy who watched his brother fall at Gettysburg? Was he scared too? Did he cry when the man next to him fell? Did he think about running when the officer he respected was blown off the horse he was riding? Did he have a wife? Did he have a son? Was his last thought of them? Was it a guy in World War I? Lying scared in a trench. Waiting for the signal to get up and run towards an unseen enemy who was right at that very minute pointing a gun in his direction. Do you think he thought about his childhood in Alabama or Texas or Maryland? Do you think he might have liked watermelon? Was it a guy in World War II? A guy who watched as some Americans on a distant hill struggled to raise a beautiful red, white, and blue flag amid a hail of bullets from an enemy who was dedicated to destroying this grand idea Americans had grown to love. Was it a guy in Korea? Charging up Pork Chop Hill and taking it, then losing it, then taking it again. A hill. A man giving his life for a hill. Anybody know where Pork Chop Hill is? Or that street in Lexington? Or that trench in France? Anybody visited Bataan lately or visited Normandy? Anybody vacationed at the spot where Douglas MacArthur stepped out of the boat when he returned to the Philippines? Or the spot where George Washington got in the boat to cross the Delaware. Anybody watch the people playing frisbee with their dog at Valley Forge and give a single thought to the men who froze there for this grand idea. Anybody head for the local picnic ground and drive past the silent fields of Gettysburg. The gentle breeze and the calls of songbirds in the lush forests are all that remain of the place where blood ran like rivers, where men in blue and men in gray lay side by side in death. Was it a guy in Viet Nam? A guy who left his family to fight a war nobody liked. A guy who shed a tear as he was pushed in a wheelchair through an airport lobby, listening as people laughed and pointed at him, flinching as a hippy stepped up and spit on him, the spit landing on the spot where his leg used to be. Was it a guy in Desert Storm or Desert Shield. A guy standing in a place whose name he couldn't pronounce. A place covered in sand. A place where death could come in the form of a child. Was it a guy who rode the first tank into the Nazi death camps? Was it a guy who watched General Lee sign the surrender at Appomattox? Was it a guy who watched the Japanese sign their surrender on the deck of one of America's war ships? Was it a guy who found the leader of Iraq cowering in a hole after being responsible for the deaths of millions of his own countrymen? I wonder if those countrymen dreamed of America. Was it a guy who walked home to the farm from the Battle of Lexington, put his rifle back up on its place above the mantle, picked up his little son, and stood on his porch, looking at a land that was free for another day. Who bought my ticket? Who made it possible for me to chose my path in life? Who made it possible for me to live in a country without fear? I want to know. Before I eat that hotdog or throw that frisbee. Before I head for the lake. I want to know. And I want other Americans to wonder too. I want Republicans and Democrats to wonder who bought their tickets. I want the Dallas Cowboys and the New York Yankees to wonder who bought their tickets. I want the Dixie Chicks to wonder who paid for their tickets. As we see all those little men with their VFW hats on with all their medals and pins, proudly displayed on bodies with missing limbs , wrinkles and liver spots, I want Americans to wonder how many tickets they bought. Those little men with tears on their faces as they remember fallen comrades and places with funny names where they left their youth, I want Americans to look at them and wonder about the tickets they bought. I want Americans to look at these little men and remember them as the giants they once were. And when we see Arlington Cemetery and the places in France where the white crosses stand in row after row as far as the eye can see, we should all think of the men and women who paid the ultimate price for a ticket. When I have taken the time to think of these men and women, when I have taken the time to think of the price they paid for my ticket, when I think of the families and children that they left behind to live in a land that is safe and free, when I think of all those little boys who were never coached by their dad or had their dads see them hit a home run or score a touchdown, when I think of all those little girls whose mothers will never see them in their wedding dress or see the birth of their grandbaby, when I think of all those men and women in uniform who left their families to go to foreign shores in search of my ticket, when I stop what I am doing and celebrate the gift of freedom and remember the people who gave that gift to me..... then.....and only then......will I eat that hotdog on Memorial Day. Thanks Dad! Thanks for my ticket. Bill Shaffer Memorial Day, 2006
The Jalopy Journal
