Memory.

I have always felt that the true heart of America is in the small towns.
Although we recently witnessed heart of a much greater magnitude, in New
York.

Looking out my window, while traveling down a two lane road, I witnessed
Military Honors being bestowed on a grave for a fallen comrade.  My mind
drifted to a time, some years ago, when I was a younger man, and pursuing the
imaginary carrot of actually someday, owning a funeral home.  The community
boasted 6,000 people, with a local VFW to call on, for Military requests.
Something that all Veterans are entitled to.  It would have been nice to have
had the funeral detail from the air base, 200 miles away, but lets face it,
it's economics.

The local VFW was made up of retired W.W.II Vets, and a few Viet Nam Vets,
who were still young enough to be working, and didn't attend many graveside
ceremonies.  So what we had, we were proud of.  There was really a great
sense of duty, and patriotism still felt in the aging W.W.II Vets, and they
would come out to honor each one of their fallen friends.

No doubt, in conversations over the years, down at the old VFW hall, they had
related to one another that "when I die, have a drink for me."  Well, as any
of us who have lost a close friend surely know, it is important to us to
fulfill their wishes.  So, when a funeral was scheduled, requiring Military
Honors, the local VFW would show up at graveside, having well honored their
friend's last wishes.  Sometimes, this could be ten o'clock in the morning.

One particular morning, they pulled into the cemetery, a little late.  They
came in, in the back of a ford pick up, and proceeded to get lined up for the
"21 Gun Salute."  Each man of 7, had been issued three rounds a piece.  When
the time came for the salute, the Commander yelled "Load!"  We then watched
the first volley, exiting the back of the rifles, and chambering of the
second.  It wasn't but a few seconds, when you could see on their faces, the
realization that it was the third volley that had really exited the gun.

Those are the stories that I will reflect on, when I'm old, sitting in a
chair in the day room of some nursing home, attempting to keep my eyes closed
as if asleep, to avoid the "Catch and Toss," beach ball game.

Mark