Memorial Day weekend

This past weekend was one to remember our fallen heros and the loved ones that we have lost, and as I have nearly every year since I can remember, I made the trek to Milligan Nebraska to do so for both in one.

My father was born between Milligan and Friend on my grandparents' farm. Although we made many trips down there, both just to visit and to hunt the surrounding areas, Memorial Days were always my favorites.

Each year until my father's death, as we drove down the day before the actual Memorial Day, my dad would turn the radio over so that we could listen to the Indianapolis 500. We would listen as famous names such as Parnelli Jones, AJ Foyt, Graham Hill and Rodger Ward drank the winners quart of milk after earning the victory at the famous Brickyard.

Then the next day, after spending the night at my grandparents' home in Milligan, we would make the trek to the cemetary south of town. We would decorate the graves of lost relatives before watching the ceremonies in one of the prettiest cemetaries I've ever seen. The entire grounds were ringed with huge cottonwood trees, and the lanes through it were also. And on Memorial Day the beautiful flowers adorning the graves themselves showed that spring had definitely sprung.

At last it was time for the ceremony. The sermon/speech was filled with pleas to never forget those who had served and made the ultimate sacrifice as well as the others who were interred there at the cemetary. My young heart and mind couldn't quite grasp what was being talked about, but the solemn atmosphere made me understand that what was being addressed was indeed something that needed to be taken to heart. The 21-gun salute quickened my heart nearly as much as the wail of Taps being played from the distance saddened it.

As my wife and oldest son and I drove to Milligan this past Sunday, I automatically reached for the radio tuner and sought out the broadcast of the 500. As much as I tried, I just couldn't recapture the thrill that I felt so many years before. And the old feelings were further driven from my heart as we approached the cemetary.

Long gone were the huge trees, felled so many years ago due to disease, wind and lightning. As we approached my father's final resting place, I noticed that the peonies next to his slab had not yet bloomed. We had planted them there because they were his favorite. Were he still with us, and these were some relative's flowers, I could hear him swearing at the fates that let this happen. I admit that I echoed those sentiments silently.

We dutifully cleaned his slab and the marker, and after stopping at the graves of my paternal grandparents, I asked my wife and son to give me a few moments.

I stood at the foot my dad's grave, and silently told him how much I loved and missed him. I related how much I wished that he were still here with us, and asked his guidance to help me through the every day trials and tribulations that life presents to us all. I also said that I was afraid that I had failed to be the man that he wanted me to become, but that I would do my best to try and do better; to attempt to be 1/2 of the person that he was. This has become my mantra, every time that I thought about him, which is daily; striving to fulfill his wishes and mine.

I know that I have done well by my children, my wife and those others who's lives I've influenced. But, as always happens when we try to compare ourselves to our heros, we fall short. And my father is, always has been and always will be my hero.

Dad, we love and miss you. Although you were taken from us over 45 years ago, you are still here in our hearts every day.

I hope that your peonies are blooming today.