Just. A. Memory.

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Father-Son

Memorial Day weekend in the southern Indiana of my childhood always meant listening to the Indianapolis 500 on the radio, washing the car in the backyard, a beginning-of-the-summer cookout, often including friends and family and plenty of hamburgers and hot dogs.

It also meant going to Crown Hill Cemetery with my father and grandmother, putting flowers on the gravesite of my grandfather, my dad’s father, Gayle Colglazier, and remembering, among other things, that he served this country in the Navy during WW II. My father carried within his body a solemnity on those Memorial Day weekends. Solemnity and pride and love. He missed his dad. I didn’t understand that then. I do now. He would sometimes cry and put his arm around my grandmother, Agnes.

It’s toward the end of the Memorial Day weekend. It’s not too late to remember those who gave their lives trying to make the world a better place, a safer place for all of us. I never want war. I hate what war does to our world and to the young men and women who are called to serve. But today I honor those who gave the ultimate sacrifice of their lives, and I am Taking a Breath and saying a prayer for those families, because they never recover from the deepest loss of a son or daughter or spouse.

Blessings on this Memorial Day Weekend.

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