One of the greatest men I ever knew was named John M*****y. He was a friend of my father's, a that I did a little work for when I was much younger. A husky vital man with a deep booming voice, outgoing and gregarious, we hit it off right away. My father used to say how he remembered how brilliant John was from school. John live an incredibly successful and blessed life.
I was doing some work for him in the spring and it was deadline kind of stuff, and I stopped by on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. His wife just said he was unavailable. I came back the next day, and as she was explaining that he locked himself up this way every year, he invited me in his "office". It was a huge room with a large desk and bookcases, but it also had a couch, love seat and a comfy looking overstuffed chair.
John had obviously been weeping. He looked awful. I had never seen him look like this; my shock and concern must have shown. He explained through tears, and scotch that I was part of an Ohio infantry regiment that landed in North Africa. He was a second lieutenant, fresh out of OCS. Out of his company of about 256 men, five, including himself survived. He told me a number of stories that day, and later when I was talking to his wife, she asked I never repeat them. She asked me if I had any idea that I was the only person including family that he had ever shared anything of the day with, other than another survivor. I was floored by the whole experience, and I have never forgotten a detail.
So every Memorial Day I sure say a prayer for the fallen, but I also think of those who came home, and especially those who came "mostly" home; they made huge sacrifices, too!
