I always leave this day open to remember those who fought for what this country is meant to represent. My husband’s father “flew the Hump”. My father flew a B-17 and after flying more missions than was required was shot down. He parachuted out of a burning plane and was held in a Prisoner of War camp in the north of Germany.
He never judged anyone knowing that his heritage was half-German. We never know when or where we’ll be called. My husband and I visited the village where he landed and was turned over to the SS. I met people who were there. They were so grateful to know he survived. Tears showed me what I represented as they explained they had no choice. I understand.
My uncle was in the infantry in WWII, and my grandfather in the trenches in WWI.
It’s a day to remember and give thanks.
I wrote in the last post about the “Sunday morning ride”, motorcycles that head out highway 1 north of San Francisco. I’ve now learned it was formed after WWII by those who came home and bought motorcycles and chose a way to meet and release. It’s been happening every Sunday for over 70 years.
My father died in a motorcycle accident when he was 47. I’m reminded now of how my uncle said many POW’s died in accidents. It’s as though they tempt fate feeling perhaps they’ve survived what many did not. Maybe it’s a matter of trust.
I’ve always felt with my father’s passing that it was more that “God” saw his beauty, compassion, and open heart, and plucked him right up. I carry him always in my heart.
It’s a day to remember, honor, and give thanks. Namaste!