Taps

So much from something so simple

Have you ever noticed how memories that stay with you forever are often generated by small things?

Doesn't take much. A word. An act. Something you happen to see.

Recently, I was thinking about my Dad.

He was a veteran of World War II who'd served in Pacific. He was a Seabee. He drove heavy equipment to build and repair runways. It wasn't heroic. Just something that needed to be done. And, like millions of others of his generation, he went out and did it.

My Dad died suddenly more than 35 years ago. It happened while I was away at Annapolis. When I got the call telling me to come home, I packed the dress blue uniform he liked. I was going to wear it to his funeral.

What got me thinking about him was an older Internet piece I came across about buglers. The armed forces have only about 500.

You should know I hold veterans in high regard. I believe that if there were ever a tally of what we, as a nation, owed them, it would exceed our ability to repay. Still, we try. And having a bugler at a funeral service is part of that settlement. Playing "Taps" is a small thing, but the haunting sound of that lone bugle carrying across a cemetery is a poignant and very fitting farewell to those who've served.

Unfortunately, we're losing World War II and other veterans at a rate of about 1,800 a day. It's an impossible situation. There aren't enough buglers for every request. There's no blame to be assigned here. It's a tough problem and the armed forces are working to find a solution.

Although he was entitled to them, my Dad's services didn't include any military honors. Neither he nor my mother requested them. There was an American flag draped over the coffin, but that was about it.

Two memories from his services, however, are indelibly etched into my mind. Both were produced by small things.

The night before the funeral - at his wake - I remember going outside to get some air and be alone for a few minutes. As I was standing there, I noticed an older gentleman nervously walking back and forth in front of the funeral home. He was about my Dad's age and the years showed hard on him. His pants were wrinkled and shiny in the seat. He had a tie that probably dated back to the late 1940s and his shirt had seen better days.

I finally walked up to him and said hello. After some small talk, he asked if this was where "Johnnie Simoneaux" was laid out. I said it was. He then asked if I thought it'd be all right if he went in, being that he wasn't a member of the family and all.

I told him that I was "Johnnie's" son and asked how he knew my Dad.

He said that he'd served with him during the war. He hadn't seen him for a while, but had read the obituary in the paper. He'd come to pay his last respects to a friend he'd served with in several Pacific hell holes.

I told him I thought it'd be fine. We talked a bit more and, then, he started to go in. After a few steps, though, he stopped, turned to me, and said, "Son, you should know your Dad was a good man."

I stayed outside a while longer because, after hearing that, I needed a few more minutes to compose myself.

Small thing, but that moment has stayed with me for more than 35 years.

The second thing happened the next morning.

On our way to the cemetery, I was in the car with my mother, sister and brother. I was in uniform and staring out of the window. Ahead of us, in the hearse, was my Dad's coffin - draped with that American flag.

As we went through an intersection, there was an older, black gentleman standing on the corner. When he saw the hearse with the flag-covered coffin, I watched him slowly come to attention. Then, he raised his right hand in a salute. As the car I was in went past him, our eyes met for a moment. That was when I raised my hand to salute him. I don't think anyone else saw us. An older veteran paying his respects to a departed comrade. A young man saying thanks in a way all who've worn a uniform understand.

The playing of "Taps" over a departed veteran is an appropriate farewell from a grateful nation. But it's also something that might become a precious memory for the family involved.

If for that reason only, I wish we could find a way to do it for every one of them.

It'd be a good thing.

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