There is no place more somber than a very old, remote country cemetery on a gray November day.
I learned quite young that it is important to pay tribute, quietly and respectfully, to those who have served this great country. My mother would remind us before we got out of the car that we weren’t to run or play, that we were in a sacred place.
This November day we were placing small wreaths for Veterans Day, and again, when winter was behind us, we would return to place small American flags and flowers on those same graves for Memorial Day.
Our farm had been home to a young man who helped my parents in the early years, milking cows and doing field work as needed. I was born on his 16th birthday, and a few years down the road, he was drafted and served in Vietnam. My mother urged us to write a note or color a picture for her to tuck inside the weekly letter she sent to him.
Our parents gave us a simplified explanation of where Tim was, and how important it was to show him our support. Because of this very elementary understanding, when it was time to pay tribute to soldiers and sailors long gone, placing those wreaths upon weathered gravestones held meaning for each of us.
One day last week, my 7-year-old grandson brought a tear to my eyes when he gave me a hug and said, “I get to sing to the veterans, did you know that?” He had been practicing at school and was going over the lyrics at home so he could do a good job.
This little fellow had been named after an uncle who was born on Veterans Day and later would serve overseas in the 1960s. It felt like a touchstone moment, a young boy grasping appreciation for those who have given their all for this country.
There is solace in knowing this: Time marches on, and respect from the very youngest among us continues to march with it.
