I just got back from a Memorial Day dedication in my town—about 300 people gathered, quietly, reverently. You could see the generations by the ball caps: Vietnam, Desert Storm, Iraq, Afghanistan. Gray hair under Navy caps. Leather vests with unit patches faded by time. A woman with a cane and an Air Force pin. A young Marine holding his grandfather’s hand.
And it reminded me.
It reminded me of my dad, a World War II vet, who every year took us to Fort Rosecrans to visit his fallen buddies. It was never a loud affair. Flowers. Just names, silence, and the wind off the ocean. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t have to.
It reminded me of all the VFW members I’ve sat with over the years—old barstools and folding chairs, beers and tall stories. The kind you don’t find in textbooks, but live in the eyes of those who made it back.
It reminded me of the D-Day veterans I interviewed. Men who stared across Normandy beaches in their mind’s eye as they spoke, their hands still trembling decades later. Men, 50 years later, who couldn’t watch Saving Private Ryan without falling to their knees and crying.
It reminded me of fellow news reporters—veterans —who carried notebooks in one hand and rifles in the other, always chasing the story, always chasing the truth.
It reminded me of my long-gone neighbors who once walked with stiff backs and quiet dignity, and whose porches are now silent.
It reminded me of Cold War friends, those who served in shadow, in silence, behind iron curtains and radar blips.
And it reminded me of a moment—years ago—standing in front of the Marine Corps Memorial in Arlington, remembering, “Too many wars.” Not in despair, but in weary recognition.
Today wasn’t just a ceremony.
It was a chorus of memories. A nation’s pulse. And a quiet vow not to forget.