People who know me best would describe me as strong, confident, futuristic, and even arrogant at times.
However, at this time of year, I become reflective.
This year, it was particularly difficult for me since my youngest daughter happened to stop by the house on her way to Seattle for a three month assignment.
She is a traveling nurse.
A month ago, my wife was in the attic changing the filters for the air conditioner when she started to rummage through some boxes that had been there for the past 18 years.
When she came down, she asked me what all of these things were that she found in a particular box.
I told her that they were medals that I had received when I was in the service.
She had never seen any of them before.
In fact, they were still in their original boxes.
Some were still wrapped in plastic cases that had never been opened.
When my daughter arrived, my wife had just finished creating a couple of shadow boxes with many of the medals displayed.
Since my daughter had never seen any of the medals either, she started asking questions about them.
Then, she started reading the citations that were also in the box.
By the time she was finished reading, she had a tear in her eye.
She said "Dad, I didn't know that you had done all of these things".
Tell me what happened when you received this Purple Heart...
and that Purple Heart...
and that Bronze Star...
how did you get that Air Medal? For the first time, I began telling stories that I had long forgotten.
In fact, I had never told many of the stories to anyone in my family before.
As the night went on, I rummaged through a closet and found an old shoe box filled with pictures and newspaper clippings of the VietNam war that included my name or the name of my unit.
As she looked at the pictures, she kept commenting on the fact that so many of the soldiers looked so young.
She even thought one of the soldiers looked about 15.
I assured her that he was at least 18.
But then, I also told her that he never got any older.
You see, he was killed about a month after the picture was taken.
We stayed up until after 1:30 in the morning talking.
I was actually exhausted after remembering everything so vividly.
The part that really hurt was when my daughter asked me the name of the soldier in one of the pictures.
I immediately started crying because I couldn't remember.
You see, I spent months and years after I came home purposely trying to forget.
I was ashamed that I couldn't remember.
Then, she turned the picture over and said, "Oh, here it is.
You wrote his name on the back of the picture".
Several years ago I was visiting my sister who lives in Arlington, VA.
This same daughter was with me at the time and she actually "tricked" me into visiting the VietNam Memorial.
We had just finished visiting the graves of my parents who are both buried in Arlington National Cemetery and I remember feeling a bit sad at the time.
As I walked along the Wall, I remember feeling the same guilt that I felt when she asked me the name of the soldier in the picture.
I could see the faces of those who died in my head, but I remember frantically searching the names on the wall hoping that just one of the names would jump out and jog my memory.
That never happened.
Instead, I simply asked to be left alone while I reached out and touched the wall saying a silent prayer for faces I could see in my head.
I remember hearing screams.
I remember smelling gun powder.
I remembered everything except their names.
I can't remember how many months it took to forget that embarrassing moment.
I thought the memory was buried for good until my daughter asked me for the soldier's name.
I'm not sure that I really want to look on the back of the other pictures in the box.
Maybe someday.
Some of you may have read the article that I wrote last year.
It's called "Memorial Day - Today I Remember With Tears".
You can read it at http://ezinearticles.
com/?Memorial-Day-Today-I-Remember-With-Tears&id=208916 All I know is that Memorial Day still hurts.
Humbly, Pat Kiggins
However, at this time of year, I become reflective.
This year, it was particularly difficult for me since my youngest daughter happened to stop by the house on her way to Seattle for a three month assignment.
She is a traveling nurse.
A month ago, my wife was in the attic changing the filters for the air conditioner when she started to rummage through some boxes that had been there for the past 18 years.
When she came down, she asked me what all of these things were that she found in a particular box.
I told her that they were medals that I had received when I was in the service.
She had never seen any of them before.
In fact, they were still in their original boxes.
Some were still wrapped in plastic cases that had never been opened.
When my daughter arrived, my wife had just finished creating a couple of shadow boxes with many of the medals displayed.
Since my daughter had never seen any of the medals either, she started asking questions about them.
Then, she started reading the citations that were also in the box.
By the time she was finished reading, she had a tear in her eye.
She said "Dad, I didn't know that you had done all of these things".
Tell me what happened when you received this Purple Heart...
and that Purple Heart...
and that Bronze Star...
how did you get that Air Medal? For the first time, I began telling stories that I had long forgotten.
In fact, I had never told many of the stories to anyone in my family before.
As the night went on, I rummaged through a closet and found an old shoe box filled with pictures and newspaper clippings of the VietNam war that included my name or the name of my unit.
As she looked at the pictures, she kept commenting on the fact that so many of the soldiers looked so young.
She even thought one of the soldiers looked about 15.
I assured her that he was at least 18.
But then, I also told her that he never got any older.
You see, he was killed about a month after the picture was taken.
We stayed up until after 1:30 in the morning talking.
I was actually exhausted after remembering everything so vividly.
The part that really hurt was when my daughter asked me the name of the soldier in one of the pictures.
I immediately started crying because I couldn't remember.
You see, I spent months and years after I came home purposely trying to forget.
I was ashamed that I couldn't remember.
Then, she turned the picture over and said, "Oh, here it is.
You wrote his name on the back of the picture".
Several years ago I was visiting my sister who lives in Arlington, VA.
This same daughter was with me at the time and she actually "tricked" me into visiting the VietNam Memorial.
We had just finished visiting the graves of my parents who are both buried in Arlington National Cemetery and I remember feeling a bit sad at the time.
As I walked along the Wall, I remember feeling the same guilt that I felt when she asked me the name of the soldier in the picture.
I could see the faces of those who died in my head, but I remember frantically searching the names on the wall hoping that just one of the names would jump out and jog my memory.
That never happened.
Instead, I simply asked to be left alone while I reached out and touched the wall saying a silent prayer for faces I could see in my head.
I remember hearing screams.
I remember smelling gun powder.
I remembered everything except their names.
I can't remember how many months it took to forget that embarrassing moment.
I thought the memory was buried for good until my daughter asked me for the soldier's name.
I'm not sure that I really want to look on the back of the other pictures in the box.
Maybe someday.
Some of you may have read the article that I wrote last year.
It's called "Memorial Day - Today I Remember With Tears".
You can read it at http://ezinearticles.
com/?Memorial-Day-Today-I-Remember-With-Tears&id=208916 All I know is that Memorial Day still hurts.
Humbly, Pat Kiggins
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