Memorial Day

Everyone has one in his or her town. Etched in stone, concrete, or granite is a list of names. Sometimes they’re by the high school football field, or baseball complex, or in a park. Stop and look at it. Reach out and trace the names with your finger. They’re real people. If you grew up there, you recognize a few family names or even a relative. Most were young and in the prime of their lives. In our extremely short history as a country, we’ve had over 1.2 million pay the ultimate price for freedom. Dad would talk about Dude Straub. Dude lived west of Uncle John and Aunt Ida’s and would come help brand or move cows or anything else they needed help with at the farm. Dad said Dude looked like he walked right out of a movie. He was over 6 foot and hardened from farm labor. He was happy-go-lucky I think. During the depression, when his family would run out of firewood and coal, they had to pick up wagon loads of cow pies to burn, Dude painted “Heifer City Coal” on the side of the buckboard wagon. To a nine year old kid, Dude was hero material. When Dude joined the navy in 1942, Dad couldn’t imagine the US military would need anyone else to defeat the Axis powers. On January 10, 1943, Durward Staub’s PBY Catalina crashed on a training mission, killing all crew members. When Dad was an old man, Dude was still 25, blond and tan, and Dad could still hear his infectious laugh. This is our little town’s monument. It’s a monument to forever young men. Your town may have more or less names, but it’s our price tag, payment in full for our freedom. We all pray that no more names are added, but evil manifests itself in every age. Look at the boyish face of Paul Martin or the bullet riddled helicopter Larry Liles died in, and be thankful.