I have a mixed bag of military service in my family. I know of an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War. I also know I have a few DNA donors who fought for the Confederacy. (I’m hoping the scales of justice were balanced with a few Union soldiers, but I have no knowledge of them – yet.) I’ve seen photos of a biological grandfather, wearing his WWII uniform. But as he went AWOL on my Granny Nita shortly after she gave birth to my biological father, I never got to ask any questions on that front. Beyond that, there’s a big gap in what I know of familial service.
Until Little Papa. He fought in Korea. When I was a kid, he never talked about his time in the service and I guess the child-me probably didn’t ask too many questions. I remember him having a tattoo from that war, but not much else. On the appearance front, Little Papa had a ducktail haircut and it was always slick. He also smoked like a chimney, but that was just Little Papa.
Though my family doesn’t have what I’d call a strong tradition of military service, I do have a strong gratitude for those who make it their life’s work (or even short-term work, for that matter). I don’t have it in me to serve in that way. I don’t believe I ever will.
But for those who do, today will find me saying prayers of gratitude. And our grand old flag will be gaily waving outside the front door. For I am grateful to our service members. I know just how blessed I am to live the life I do. And their service work has contributed tremendously to the circumstances that make my little life possible.
I’ll also be thinking of Little Papa today. You know, when I last saw him he was dying of emphysema. His body was frail and weak. Every breath required tremendous effort. And yet, somehow, his hair was still in a perfect ducktail. And it was slick. So, so slick.