I remember today my old teacher, John Hearne, who, as an RAF officer at the end of the Second World War was responsible for the evacuation of British Jews from Germany. His description of taking six-foot tall men weighing less than ninety pounds onto aircraft was truly haunting.

I really wish I could have persuaded Dad to write down his experiences.

I thank all my vet friends individually, to the extent possible, on this day. But for all you veterans here who I don’t know: thank you. Thank you for your service, and for being patient with the civilian population when we don’t understand what you’ve been through...

Your service is, in fact, part of the reason I vote in every election (I missed a couple of school board elections recently, but that’s it): not specifically to honor you, but because I know that voting is a privilege gained at cost, and if I’m not paying the cost the very least I can do is my own duty as a citizen. I will also criticize the government (yes, even the Obama government), which is also a duty and a privilege of citizens, bought with the sacrifice of “rough men” (and women).

I honor you in words, and back that up by doing my part to make sure goverment by, of, and for the people shall not perish from the Earth…though as a civilian, my primary focus is on domestic enemies, while yours is/has been/was primarily on foreign ones.

Profound thanks. This may be the only day I say it, but it’s far from the only time I think of and appreciate your service, and what precious freedoms it buys for me.

It's hard to believe my grandfather died over 20 years ago. He was the radio operator on a spy ship, and when he came home he received Commercial Operator License #17. Or maybe it was #7. I never saw the piece of paper, though he said he looked for it -- seems the trunk it was in went somewhere astray. He governed a CCC camp in the depression, and went back into the Army in WW2. After the war, he became an extreme rightwinger, ghosting radio scripts for Upton Close and producing pamphlets that are still available from tiny little publishers out there.

In his later years, he was still an amazing man, continuing to write (including novels, poems, and novel-length poems, as well as a memoir that was edited down and published by University of Texas -- reading through it, I recognize some parts that I typed while we were visiting the ranch) and invent, even after he stopped raising Angus cattle. The older he got, the more eager he was to share his political views with anybody who held still.

My dad, who seems to have inherited some of his outlook, never says much about his WW2 service. Last year I read a typescript memoir by my uncle that told me as much as I've ever learned about Dad's service in what he calls "the Boer War." Uncle Don also wrote a novel based on events in his life, in which the character modeled on Dad spent time in a prison camp. I'm glad it's fiction.

"But as year follows year, more old men disappear.
Someday no one will march there at all."

The three surviving British veterans of WWI - 108, 110 and 112 yo - were wheeled out in a moving ceremony at the Cenotaph in London. One of them, Harry Patch, who lives a few miles from me, has produced an autobiography, "The Last Fighting Tommy" (he's the last surviving soldier to have fought in the trenches, getting badly wounded in 1917; the other vets were in the Navy and/or Flying Corps). It's well worth reading. And see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7722443.stm

Harry Patch was 100 before he talked about the war. He didn't want to go in the first place (his brother had already been wounded and told him what it was really like) and still thinks the war was not worth one life.

Today is, or should be, about the war, and not doing that again.

My grandfathers were conscripted after President Wilson so graciously bestowed US citizenship on the people of Puerto Rico in 1917. My paternal grandfather, José Quiñones, was in the Navy, as something of a valet to some naval officer or other. He apparently spent some time in Cardiff, and he got to see Paris after the war ended. He'd be 112 if he were living.

My maternal grandfather, Eulogio Hernández, was not in the service long. I don't know which branch or why they let him go, though since he could ride a horse, maybe he was in the cavalry. He'd be 114. (For comparison's sake, I'm 40.)

Interestingly, the name of the rating has changed a couple of times. It was steward (ST) until 1975, when it changed to Mess Management Specialist (MS). Then in 2004 it was changed to Culinary Specialist (CS).

I don't need to tell you that fancier titles don't mean pay raises, do I?

He's now a fisherman and church elder in a little town in northwestern Ontario, having been sponsored in his immigration to Canada in the 1970s by the only other man in the country with his specialty (music engraving)--who happened to be a German-Canadian. He now has six kids, twelve grandkids, and two great-grandkids. He fishes avidly but refuses to handle guns.

I should go give him an e-hug. I love you, grandpa Ted.

To go to the next generation, my dad and his brother served in WWII; Uncle Cesar was a medic in Italy, and all I know about the details is that he contracted malaria during his time there. Dad was stateside; he played in an Army band, French horn and tuba, so I remember being told. I think my mother has pictures of his band. I should ask about them.

My brother had academic deferments from Vietnam, and my nephews, the youngest 13 and the oldest 26, are still subject to draft registration, dammit!