I am the daughter of a veteran.
My late dad served in the U.S. Navy, but true to some unwritten code, he rarely talked about it.
He and his generation returned from WWII and promptly went about the business of life.
They married, raised children, started businesses. Burying any feelings about their wartime experiences, they worked hard so their children wouldn’t have to go to war.
It didn’t work, of course. There have been several wars since then in far-off places like Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq.
Their goal, however, was noble. Admirable.
My dad never participated in a Veterans Day parade. Never modeled his uniform for us kids. Never brought out medals to impress us.
He was a humble man.
His believed that life, well-lived, was testimony enough.
You know, it’s kind of a misconception that Veterans Day is set aside to honor those who served in our nation’s military and died either in battle or from wounds sustained in combat.
What Veterans Day recognizes is all who served, both living and deceased. To recognize the selfless contribution all have made so that we might live as free people.
So when I see uniform-clad men and women, proudly wearing their ribbons and medals, crisply saluting the Flag as it passes by, and emotionally listening to speeches, I’m reminded of my own dad.
Who served nobly. And without much fanfare.
And I’m proud. Very proud.