Memorial Day, to many it’s a pointless holiday or even worse they consider it offensive to honor men who died serving their Nation.
But for me, it’s a time to remember the friends and family I’ve lost who loved America and were willing to put their lives on the line for what they believed in.
To my friends, Bob, Ron, Eric and Shawn, Rest in peace guys.
““When the final taps is sounded and we lay aside life’s cares,
And we do the last and glories parade, on Heaven’s shining stairs,
And the angels bid us welcome and the harps begin to play,
We can draw a million canteen checks and spend them in a day,
To Saint Peter we will tell:
Another GI reporting , Sir;
I’ve served my time in Hell!”
To my Dad, I’m proud to be your son.
On July 4th 1969 You died to save the men in your platoon, and they came home and raised their kids and have never forgotten you. I miss you dad, you did good
To all my other brothers and sister in uniform who died in distant and lonely places, who have fallen in service to the nation I have only this to give.
“Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle’s enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour’s clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
~Sir Walter Scott.