America the Beautiful

Maywood, circa 1947 (and no I wasn't born yet)

 Tomorrow is Memorial Day, and though we often think of days off work, barbecues, fun weekend trips, and family, I want you know of my love for America. My bucket list includes traveling to and visiting all 50 states. I only have three left. Problem is I can’t figure out a reason to go to Oklahoma, North Dakota, or Alabama. Just kidding. I’m sure there’s something memorable hidden in the dust bowl, ice, and swamp somewhere.

America isn’t perfect, but neither are we. I am grateful for servicemen who everyday allow me to go to bed without a thought for my safety. I am grateful for a grandfather, Ben Lang, who served his community as mayor and city councilman for twenty plus years. Okay, so he wanted to ride on the back of the fire truck whenever they got an emergency call.

It’s kind of funny. My idea of history is stories, not so much face and name recognition. I didn’t even know Obama was tall. (Again, a little humor.) Anyway my point is that I am in possession of snapshots taken of my grandfather while he was mayor of Maywood, including some during World War II. One day sorting through those photos, my husband, the play-by-play reporter, pointed to one man standing to the right of the podium where my grandfather stood during a war bond campaign. “Do you know who those men are?”

“No,” I replied. “Just some guys in uniform I guess.”

“Count the stars on that guy’s shoulder. That’s General Patton.” Then he pointed to the man on his left. “And that one rubbing elbows with your Grandpa is Jimmy Doolittle.”

“You mean they actually sent the real guys?” I was used to Vegas imposter extravaganzas. It’s good I married someone old enough to recognize them. (Just kidding, again.) And while I did not know their faces, I knew their stories. And I was proud of Papa.

I’m grateful for a father, who at the young age of sixteen, had his mother sign for him so he could join the Navy. At an age where most are learning to drive, he was protecting our freedom in Okinawa. He never talked much about the horrific things he must have seen, but it never dampered his love for his country, freedom, and illegal fireworks.

I am grateful for uncles who served in World War II and the Korean War, and a husband and cousins who served in VietNam.

I’m proud of my son Hot Wheelz for completing his Navy service in Bahrain, the Middle East. And while I am not blind to some of the antics of both the military and the enlisted men, I am grateful for a military that provides a rite of passage into adulthood, and for young men who feel it is important to serve their country and their God.

And yes, I am getting ready for a barbecue tomorrow. My four-year-old granddaughter asked her grandpa what we were having.

“Ribs,” he responded.

The Worm has difficulty with her R’s. So ribs, became “Goody, I like wibs.”

My husband says, “Oh, you like wibs?”

“No, grandpa, you’re not saying it right. It’s WIBS.”

“That’s what I said,” he teased, “WIBS.”

“Oh, grandpa, it’s okay. Maybe you’ll be able to say it when you get older.”

P.S. Have a memorable Memorial Day. Meditate or pray for our country’s leaders and servicemen. And don’t eat too many hot dogs. If you’re my age, you won’t be right for a week. (Remember the history I didn’t like? I’m now old enough to be considered history.)

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