Over 20 years ago my first home was located on a dead end street in upstate New York. The street was incredibly quiet all the time, until Memorial Day rolled around each spring. On that day it was jammed with slow moving vehicles making their way into the gated cemetery at its terminus. The cars, trucks, and vans would each move respectfully into the narrow opening, then the caravan would spread out as appreciative loved ones would find their way to specific gravesites, many for their only visit of the year.
Flags would be posted, flowers deposited, and prayers said as the grateful would sacrifice a few hours of their time on behalf of the remains of those who had sacrificed all. The next day the usually morose cemetery would be ablaze with bright colors of red, white, and blue as well as the hues of a dozen flower varieties, both organic and plastic. It was a glorious sight.
My paternal grandfather was buried there. He didn't die in the war he fought, and neither did my own father, but they sacrificed regardless and made my world one of freedom and prosperity. I remember them for not backing down from an ideal. I esteem them - and those who share such courage and commitment today - as the heroes they became. Ordinary men are accomplishing extraordinary tasks for us. Please remember them.
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