This morning I stood at my kitchen sink washing dishes and planning out our Memorial Day as the morning news droned on in the background. I suspect our daily agenda looked like many other mid-American households: yard work, house work, work work, pool-time and barbeque time. Our children’s day would also include my husband’s annual instruction in honor and patriotism. He is his father’s son, and this year for the reasons I share here I am even more proud of that.

Each year he pulls out the newspaper, checks the time of the service at the Lexington Cemetery and corrals our daughters off to witness the true meaning of Memorial Day. Depending on the hour of the service, the heat index, and the level of grumpiness there is often a dispute about which children must attend. The younger one – unless she has already donned her swimming attire for the day – is willing to go along for the ride. The older ones are – par for the course – a different story. There are time worn comments about it being “their summer vacation” or it being “too hot.” Each year I push my husband to take them all. Yes, I believe in his lesson to them and usually reflect briefly on its importance. But mainly, I just want some peace and quiet for a few hours. That is until this year. […]