When people talk about Veterans Day, the image that comes to mind is often something like this:

And that’s a beautiful example and a fine tribute.  Today, however, my thoughts are a little closer to home as I think of my Grandpa and my brother, Jake.  I see each of them standing tall and proud in their uniforms, one Air Force and the other Army.  The picture of Grandpa is an old black and white photo, while my brother’s is in color and has a glossy sheen.  Overlaid across the pictures and scribbled around the images are memories.

Grandpa and me, walking down that dirt road from his house to the farm, carrying milk buckets and looking at the stars.  He’d tell me about the constellations, and I’d mix them up, but I’d remember the sense of discovery and wonder in his voice, and the knowledge that he loved me. 

My brother, fresh home from his second tour, showing me pictures of buddies in uniform, the little cat they adopted, the desert and sand and something burning in the night.  Holding other pictures back, knowing they were too raw, too violent.  His understanding that I couldn’t look at them even though he lived them.

Grandpa, his voice a little gravely as he reads us a story he’s written.  It’s about a little mountain goat and though it hasn’t got any spaceships or magic, I feel myself go still as I listen.

My brother, back when we were kids and I was the big sister he could always sucker into reading stories.  I loved the way he listened, the thrill of bringing the story to life with my voice.  We always took time for ‘just one more.’

Thank you to veterans, and to their families, and thank you to my veterans.  Your choice to protect this country is woven up in my story, and in my ability to tell stories.  I am grateful today–and every day.

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