Monday is Memorial Day in the United States.  It’s our national holiday for remembering those who’ve made the ultimate sacrifice for America.

It’s also the traditional first day of summer. We remember those who have died by parading, barbecuing, and drinking. As crass as that sounds, I believe that many of those we remember on this day would have liked it that way.

Memorial Day does raise an uncomfortable issue for me, however. What’s the greatest sacrifice I’ve made for my country? Embarrassingly, nothing comes to mind immediately. I was a Boy Scout. ( Hey, it was cold at winter camp in northern Minnesota!) I helped clean up the local park. (That was a long day, almost 9 hours!) I’ve paid most of my taxes. (Note to self: dig deeper for deductions.)

Perhaps the brutally honest answer is that I’ve made virtually no sacrifices for my country. I’m the son of a Purple Heart winner. Does that count?

This Monday morning my little family will do what it does every Memorial Day. We’ll ride our bicycles to our neighborhood parade that features fire engines and aging veterans.  Every year the number of WWII vets dramatically diminishes in this parade and every year the Vietnam vets look more and more like the WWII vets of my youth. I’ll take off my hat and applaud extra hard as they pass by. I’ve approached these old guys as they sit in the back seat of a red classic convertible and thanked them for their service; my World War II veteran father always appreciated that when young people approached him with the same gratitude. I honor my father by thanking strangers for the unimaginable.

I recently went to the scene of a World War II battle where my father was seriously injured—The Battle at the Ramagen Bridge.  The bridge was mostly destroyed in this famous battle, but what remains has been turned into a sweet but powerful museum. As I walked in, two old German women sat behind an information desk selling tickets.  I proudly announced that my father had been at this battle thinking I would be treated like second-generation royalty. One of the women looked at me with sad, ex-enemy eyes and simply said, “Yah, we see lots of boys here who look just like you.”

 I always bring my camera to the parade though I’m really not sure why. To be honest, I rarely shoot a photograph that I love. It’s usually 11:15 AM on a bright sunny day and the sunshine is bare light bulb nasty, but I keep pushing the button.  I’ll post a couple pictures of veterans on my Facebook page hoping that someplace my father will recognize that his proud son is still paying attention. (See my list of Photo Tips for photographing parades.)

So this Monday I hope you find yourselves parading, barbecuing, drinking, and paying attention in your own way. God bless America.

Thank you, father. I’ll make sure your grandchildren understand.

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