When I was little I remember barbeques at different relatives and at our own house, but can’t really remember what holiday it was on, although I’m sure that Memorial Day wouldn’t have been passed up without celebrating since we have so many relatives that served in various wars.
A few of my uncles had tattoos, which I’m guessing was symbolic for those who served. Representing a kind of war wound. At least that’s the way I took it when I was a kid.
Dad could barbeque some mean chicken. I think I remember someone saying how he’d get drunk, drop some pieces on the ground but then would douse them with beer and he’d claim they were as good as new. I could see him doing that.
When I start thinking about things, like previous wars and who served, there are so many unanswered questions. Why didn’t Dad serve in the war? I thought someone said he was too old. What’s too old?
As we head to a barbeque tomorrow and although I don’t drink and can’t toast to those who served, I shall toast with my heart—wishing all who served my sincere gratitude and who are now serving—a safe journey home.