Memorial

I appreciate the commemoration of Memorial Day. In spite of being a Navy veteran nearly always stationed with Marines, I get lost in the day to day and forget to slow down and remember.

My father is buried at the Santa Nella National Cemetary south east of San Francisco about 80 miles or so. He was drafted and fought in the Korean War. After the war he couldn't find work enough to support a new wife and daughter so returned to the Army. Some years later, the Army sent him as an "advisor" to Vietnam, and for another tour in 1968. He saw plenty, and was awarded a medal of valor for some of the conflict he endured.

He retired from the Army and worked as a truck driver until he really retired. He enjoyed the long reflective hours at the wheel, listening to his favorite radio programs, music (sons of the pioneers), and books on tape. He especially loved having breakfast with his buddys. They would talk all morning, solving all the worlds problems in a few hours.

After having a stroke, his last years were spent in a hospital bed, with people who didn't really care for him. He could no longer eat or talk, the two things he loved most. He held on long enough to see his children, and battle the VA for the medical coverage he couldn't afford and they never seemed to give without a fight. He died in his sleep.

I made damn sure he received a proper send off, befitting a hero. The Army provided a chaplain, the Navy provided an honor guard. It was a beautiful service and a beautiful day in the rolling hills bordering the eastern San Juaquin Valley.

Every summer, I travel the 500 miles north to visit him. California is a big state, 1000 miles long from north to south, with diverse geographic regions.

He loved the Big Valley. Born to teenaged migrant workers from Mexico and Oklahoma, he was adopted by an old cowboy who worked as a seasonal wrangler, and his much younger wife. It was a classic "Grapes of Wrath" story. During the picking season, they all picked fruit, almonds, vegetable, anything that needed to be picked. When cattle needed tending to, that was done as well. They got by.

Dad told me that every Christmas he got a new pair of boots; on his birthday a new pair of jeans. His mom made his shirts. He spoke glowingly about his dad and mom, the sacrifices they made, the fun they created from nothing. No computers, no cell phones, no video games, just a creative imagination and an appreciation for what the good Lord provided.

By sweat, blood, and sacrifice, my Dad and others like him loved the land they lived in, serving the nation and asking for little in return. I miss him.