by Morgan Johnson

Created on: November 11, 2008

Veteran's Day has come and gone nearly fifty times since I came on the world. Unlike many of my peers, I have always observed it. Even when I was supposed to be a rebellious, self-centered teen, I wasn't. I knew the meaning of the American flag and the cost paid to keep it safe.

At sixteen I put on knee britches and a bandage on my head and marched in a bicentennial parade in Germany. A few months later I carried a flag down a street in the capital of Luxembourg.

By now you realize I was a military brat. My father served in the Army as a sergeant for nearly all of my life. Many people remember JFK Jr. saluting his father's casket in 1963. That was me my entire life. I have yet to bury my father but I stood by as many others went into the ground.

This is the intimate knowledge that lends great meaning to the fields of white stone that mark our national cemeteries. They are all that remains of the foolish and the brave that gave all for our freedoms. For me there was never a need for a Veteran's Day to remind me of their sacrifice.

The veteran's parades were smaller then. Few came out to acknowledge those who served in an unpopular war. Liberally-educated college students smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and cast downward glances at men in uniform. But the old and the families remembered.

We stood by in the chilly rain as flags snapped in the breeze on cold November mornings. Boy Scouts had already put little flags on each grave. A chaplain in uniform eulogized the fallen; a general praised their sacrifice and promised we would not forget.

As long as I remember I have had the habit of walking down those rows and looking at the names.

- A private lies here who died June 6th 1944; I think of The invasion of Normandy in WWII.

- The next grave belongs to a sergeant who died the same day. He is older. Did he have children?

- Further down I see an 18 year old lieutenant who died on a day I don't know, in a place unfamiliar to me.

- A Captain several rows later was almost 30 when he died in WWI. From the date I think it had to be around the Battle of the Marne.

So many men dead so young - they are half my current age. I salute the graves before I walk away. I ask permission to carry on with my life of freedom and independence that they had secured for me.

Before I left a cemetery once I noticed the last resting place of an Army major. He was born in the late part of the 19th century. By his age I expect he had served in World War One at least. He certainly survived his service because he died at ninety-two when I was a teen.

I still remember the day but not the name. I learned years later that war doesn't kill everyone who goes. I also learned that many who come back bring the war home with them. It hides in their mind in places others seldom see.

I have learned that this is the true price of freedom. Not dying at once in battle but living with the battle inside you. These are the people we honor on our holidays and when we stand at the playing of our National Anthem - especially on Veteran's Day.

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