Memorial Day

Image: Devon DeLapp

Today is a very busy day for my 81-year-old grandfather. Prior to today, he's mapped the military graves in his local cemetery, re-checked and adjusted the map where there were errors, noting the location of each and every serviceman's grave. Volunteers will help him mark each of those graves with a flag. The cemetery has been well-maintained and manicured. The wildly variable Tahoe weather means that in some years, snow has to be dusted from the graves to find the ones to mark, and in others, my grandpa has to wipe the sweat from his brow as he goes from plot to plot. There will be a memorial service.

My grandpa has served in the military since the mid 1940s. He caught the tail end of WWII and was in Korea and Vietnam. He met my grandmother, Rose, while in the ROTC at UCLA. She was an airplane rivet driller. Her short stature allowed her to get into the wingtips, where she'd drill the holes for the riveters to follow. She also waitressed at a little restaurant where she slipped extra pats of rationed butter between my grandpa's pancakes when no one was looking. My grandpa still relishes melted butter on just about anything he can have it on, but especially on baked goods and "hotcakes".

Grandpa retired decades ago, but he has never stopped serving his country, and more importantly, his fellow soldiers. He doesn't always agree with the conflict at hand, and his wish is that no one would ever have to go to war again, but he supports the men who are out there doing the job, and understands the difficulties they face when they return. He still works with his local veterans administration to support the young men coming back from Iraq.

My grandfather has a love for language. One of the things that he says that he learned from serving all over the world, during wars and peace, was that people are the same. People have hopes and dreams and children and pain, and we are all the same. He has no patience for bigots, racists, or small-minded religious leaders. One of his greatest pleasures is to extract a few words from his mental library and communicate with someone who isn't expecting it. An Indian might receive a "namaste" or he might tell someone the time in German, or Russian, or thank them in Chinese, or Spanish. He's pretty sharp. Relaying these tales is one of the few times he'll let his pride show, because he so loves the look of surprise on their faces. It gives him so much joy to be able to connect.

When the movie "Platoon" came out, I had to go see it for a college class. I had no idea what I was in for. I wept through the whole thing, and I thought of my grandfather. As soon as the movie was over, I called him, crying, and thanked him for going through what he went through. He's not the type of guy that glorifies the war. You won't hear him telling stories of his own heroism, or making it sound like it wasn't so bad. Though he has received three Purple Heart medals, he doesn't mention those either.

Once in a great while, when we're on the phone, he'll feel like talking about something, and will tell me about something that happened to him, such as being blinded and having his back broken at the same time, crawling to safety and being helicoptered out of a dangerous situation. I listen intently, I take notes (he doesn't know that I do this) trying to soak up all of the details, but I can never remember them precisely enough. What I do know is that there were horrors that he will never talk about, and that he can never entirely forget. He went through those things because he had a sense of duty to his country, and to the people he was with. He has tried to make sense of things as best he can over the years.

Once, I sent him the lyrics to this Little Steven song called I Am A Patriot (later released by both Jackson Browne and Pearl Jam):

I am a patriot,and I love my country
Because my country is all I know
I wanna be with my family
People who understand me
I got no place else to go...
I am a patriot

I ain't no communist
And I ain't no socialist
And I ain't no capitalist
And I ain't no imperialist
And I ain't no democrat
I sure ain't no republican either
I only know one party, and its name is freedom
Listen to me, I am, I am, I am...
I am a patriot, and I love my country
Because my country is all I know

He liked it. I think it spelled out how we both feel, and why I cry when I hear the National Anthem. It always reminds me of my grandfather, whom I love dearly, and who, in his quiet way, is a huge hero. He doesn't always believe that his government is right, but he always believes in his country, and in spite of all that he has seen, he still believes in the good of people. Right now, we're just about as embarrassed as a country can be by its leadership or lack thereof, but it is, and always will be Home. In the midst of the barbecues, beers, or whatever sunny pursuit I happen to be enjoying later today, I'm going to put my hand over my heart and thank those people, men and women, who were willing to put themselves in the service of their country, right or wrong.