A Day of Honor

Veteran's Day: "A celebration to honor America's veterans for their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good." - Veteran's Administration

The more years I see in my life, the more gravity the commitment of the men and women in uniform holds for me. It seems almost shoddy to me that we honor their sacrifice only one day a year. So let's seize this single day, and shout out our pride, with love and affection for those who would lay down their lives for their friends. Today, let's remember our veterans. Today, let me tell you a story.

My grandfather was born into very southern Appalachia, in Paint Rock, AL. I love to hear his stories about his childhood. He worked hard, laboring in the fields as a young boy, but also tells me of the fun he had. I only hope we can provide our boy with half the opportunity to be alone, to be wild, to enjoy the world around him with reckless abandon. I worry he won't have friends who are given the same free rein. I want him to be free, like my grandfather.

He tells a story of a road over a small mountain that was near to his house. When he would venture out into the valley, away from home, he would always sprint through the tree cover, fleeing the large, wild cat that stalked through the area. (It was either a mountain lion or bobcat... I suppose I should inquire the next time I see him.) When he would get to the other side of the small mountain (the road still goes through this area), he would stop and catch his breath and continue on his way. He would do the same thing as he returned home. He got around on foot, sometimes by bicycle if he was lucky. I always find he relates well to my adventures... he gets it, because he knows that you love the land most when you fully experience it in true contact.

My grandfather is full of stories. It often crosses my mind that his was the last of the great generations of story tellers, folks who could whistle a tune and weave together their words to take you far away, and effortlessly convey deep, meaningful ideas and concepts. They are the great wordsmiths... I can only wish to be half the conveyor or myth and truth that my grandfather is. I've wondered before if, with more education, he could have been a great author. Sometimes I wish that was the case; I can scarcely do justice to his tales. I'd wager my love of words and language was handed down to me, by my grandfather and his siblings.

During the Korean War conflict, he spent time with the Corps of Engineers building flight lines for airplanes. A few years ago, I sat down with him to chat about his experiences for a class assignment. He told me about the frigid winters, his work, seeing planes crash, fires... unbelievable things, half way around the globe. During that time, he went places I dream of visiting. San Francisco, Japan... beautiful places, punctuated by his war experience in between. But he always wanted to come back home, to the south. And so he did.

When he returned home, he used the knowledge, experience, and expertise he had gained in the Army to build a successful business with a bulldozer. Even now, when I travel around the area, I look at hills and embankments, and I see and know his handiwork. The beautiful slopes, cleared of trees as cows wander aimlessly, chomping on the grass... those are the art of my grandfather's hands. He might also tell you the cows had shorter legs on one side so they could manage the tough terrain.

I haven't tested this hypothesis, but I regularly take the liberty of telling my own child the same thing.