My Memorial Day

On this gray, cool day I’ll be going down to the Park Street Cemetery to visit with my father and grandfather who are buried there. My grandfather, William Twohig and my Dad, Harold Beattie, fought in the World Wars. Both survived and had families but neither of them talked very much about their war experiences, life in the trenches in France or flying dive bombers in the pacific. Those were proud acts of courage and devotion by them, but were also life changing, leaving tragic memories that they felt were better left unshared with the ones they loved and carried on with, another act of heroism.
So many have followed in their footprints. Their time of service doesn’t end when their active
time runs out. Our veterans defend us their entire lives, relief in telling their stories are welcome
to me.
Millions more, from around the world never came home, dying in the horrible grips of war.
Terrible losses to families, friends and communities. We do our best to remember and honor all
of them, especially on this day. What they have suffered is beyond my ability to know and my
thanks, again this year, will not be enough to honor their lives.
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I’ll leave a glass of lilacs, picked at the farm they loved, from the son and grandson they loved,
assuring them I carry on their lives of care and work.

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