I will never forget the first time I saw Flags for Heroes here in Easton. Row upon row of American flags all waving in unison, not just in one field, but in many spaces, creating a powerful reminder of all those lost to conflict. There was such serenity in this dramatic scene. I could have been standing in front of the Vietnam Memorial, or at the site of 9/11. That quiet, deep, respectful silence you feel in your core when you are confronted with a moment in time so awful in its magnitude no words can explain it, no emotion can touch it.
Viewing this stunning display, I could imagine men and women in uniform standing beside each flag. It was easy to envision my father and uncles as they would have been going off to war — young, full of life and anxious to serve. My thoughts went to my grandmothers who each gave more than one son over to an uncertain future in defense of their new country, never knowing, from day to day, where their beloved sons were, how they were or if they would ever see them again.
It is about Remembering.
I went home that day and straight to the photo albums my mother had beautifully curated over the years. I found many photos of smiling soldiers handsome in their uniforms looking ready for trouble. My father and his brothers crowding around their mother and father, younger siblings looking up at them in awe. My father and his fiancée (my mother) holding tight to each other. I found the box with his Purple Heart, his medals and ribbons, a formal photograph in full dress uniform — but where were the stories? What were the stories?
My father served in the Army in World War II and never spoke of the war. Whatever I know about this time in his life came to me from others. The precious little I do know, when read together, make up a kind of story with a beginning, a middle and an end. There is romance and comedy, tragedy and, thankfully, a happy ending. But there is so much missing and for this all I can do is rely on history books and Hollywood to tell me what my father couldn’t. Here is all I know:
It begins with an engagement. Just before he left, he gave my mother a ring – a band of rose gold made up of tiny flowers and leaves – wait for me, our love will bring me home to you.
There were letters — so many letters — “To My Dearest Stardust” — letters that dreamed, in words, their future together. Words that thick black bars over whole sentences could not erase. Sometimes there was a drawing enclosed. Hearts for Valentines Day, a Christmas Tree — all I wish is to be with you for Christmas. A sketch he did of trees and fields— is this what it looks like where he is? Some were sketches of him drawn by a friend — Don’t forget me, I’m still the same.
My mother told me that while being treated for his injuries in Naples, Italy, family there found him. Pasta, wine, and soups followed (such as could be obtained) and the gentle care only a family can give. Along with the pasta and wine, they vowed he would not return home until they found him a good Italian girl to marry and bring back to America. My mother laughed— he is mine.
An aunt tells me of my father’s return home. Of the grieving mother who made his life a misery. Dressed entirely in black, distraught, and beside herself with grief, she would seek him out—on the street, in a store, in Church on Sunday in order to publicly and loudly blame him for her son’s death, never failing to tell him it should have been him and not her son. Though this affected him greatly and though he was still recovering from his injuries, my father would stand in respectful silence as she ranted, understanding her grief. You see, her son was not just a comrade in arms but someone my father had grown up with. They were together when the bomb exploded. The explosion wounded my father and killed his best friend. I have the watch he was wearing — its face shattered, a bloodied band.
My father survived his injuries and came home from the war to create, with my mother the life he dreamed in his letters. Although the war left its mark (which he bore silently), the grace and honor in which he served his country he carried through his entire life. Whatever his experiences in World War II, they did not dim his smile, steal his sense of humor, or harden his heart.
He is my Hero, and this was about Remembering. Thank you all for allowing me to share this with you.
This Memorial Day we will be given an opportunity to remember, and by remembering, to preserve the legacy of freedom and service left to us by our loved ones. The Rotary Club of Easton Flags for Heroes will also be an opportunity to acknowledge those who serve in present time. We find our Heroes in the military. They are our police officers and firefighters, our teachers and first responders. They are among our family and our friends. And, in this age of COVID-19 and all its variants, they are our healthcare workers.
The Rotary Club of Easton Flags for Heroes’ Mission is “To Honor and Support the Heroes in Our Community” — who are your Heroes?
Information on Flags for Heroes can be found at flagsforheroes.org. The deadline is May 25. Sponsors and their heroes will be published in the Star Democrat over Flag Day Weekend.
(0) comments
Welcome to the discussion.
Log In
Keep it Clean. Please avoid obscene, vulgar, lewd, racist or sexually-oriented language.
PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CAPS LOCK.
Don't Threaten. Threats of harming another person will not be tolerated.
Be Truthful. Don't knowingly lie about anyone or anything.
Be Nice. No racism, sexism or any sort of -ism that is degrading to another person.
Be Proactive. Use the 'Report' link on each comment to let us know of abusive posts.
Share with Us. We'd love to hear eyewitness accounts, the history behind an article.