For Veterans Day, I think every family in America can tell a story—something they’ve heard, someone they know, or an incident they recall that helps them appreciate the sacrifice our soldiers make.

My Father was a soldier.

He was fortunate. Drafted in 1958, he began and ended his military service during the peacetime between two major conflicts, the Korean conflict and the Vietnam War.

His being drafted was actually a time of great joy and sadness for his family. There was segregation in the military then, but he didn’t care. He’d grown up around it, knew the rules like the back of his hand. For him, military service was an opportunity to travel the world—at least the world beyond the cotton fields of his Northeastern Mississippi hometown. Actually, come to think of it, he didn’t describe it as a ‘town’. It was a ‘community’. They went to ‘town’ to go shopping.

No street address adorned that small wooden home he had grown up in with his grandparents. Rural route X, box XXX, was how they called it. For driving directions, one was told—a green house, up the road, by the creek, on Mister Somebody’s place, in White’s Station. His family were sharecroppers, you see.

In a curious way, Dad was looking forward to military service. He and his friends, all now young men, had heard the older men speak of their time in the military with some fondness. At that time, all young men in the U.S. were summoned into military service, and their little community was no exception. The boys had seen others leave with great sadness, and return alive and well--with trendy new haircuts and crisp, clean uniforms.

A couple of the older men, who had been to war, had never come back. That was in the back of their minds as well. But, it wasn’t a concern yet—there was no war on the horizon—at least that they knew of.

Still, the boys hoped they would serve together.

The big day finally came. He and his family gathered at the bus stop in town—grandma, grandpa, mother, stepfather, uncles, cousins and his new wife (my mother)—all came to see. They were sad, and frightened, but did their best to be upbeat and hopeful. Still they understood that Dad was going far away from home, for the first time ever. They hoped he would come back to them alive and well, and that the Army wouldn’t change him too much—they liked the sweet boy they were sending off. His grandmother was known to say, “I hope they don’t put so much on that boy that he cracks up.” She had seen soldiers who had returned ‘not quite right’—they had seen too much, too young, and their souls couldn’t comprehend…

And, that day, my Dad was full of fear too. For the first time, he would be alone in the world. He was sad as well--what if he never saw them again? He decided to take in as much of home as he could—he savored the smell of the town, and the looks on their faces. He tried to keep a brave face too.

Thankfully, a couple of his friends were on that same bus that day. And they too had never spent one night away from home. Sadness loves company—and they were all glad to be traveling together.

He took a window seat on this bus, with his buddy, so that he could wave to his family as the bus pulled away. Once it was gone, the family went back home to have a stiff drink and cry—their baby was gone.

Within the next few days and for each day following, they looked for a letter from him. After about a month, the first one came. Miss Mattie and Mr. Jim, his grandparents, announced it to their neighbors. “That boy sent a letter!” they said with glee. “They must be treating him alright!”

Then, they sent for someone to read it to them. We cannot trace his family back through U.S. slavery—it seems that they must have immigrated from somewhere a couple of generations prior--but they were definitely subject to segregation. And in his grandparents’ youth, school was not important. They needed to work so the family could survive. My grandmother, their child, managed to get an 8th grade education. She was summoned to read that special letter.

In his note, Dad explained that he was in ‘basic training’ and would finish soon. Then he would go to Virginia for awhile until he got his next assignment. Virginia, they thought! That had to be a promotion—he was going to be a Captain in the Army! Mr. Jim would say, “I knew that boy was smart. They gon’ make something out of him!”

No one they knew well had ever gone to Virginia.

The letters kept coming—to his wife, and to his grandparents. My maternal grandmother, who owned a restaurant and general store in their community, recalls Mr. Jim coming to her store, having a meal after receiving one of the letters, and requesting the same song on the jukebox every time—Poor Boy A Long Way from Home. He’d bring the letter they received for my mother to read. He also wanted to hear the love letter she got from Dad. She’d read both letters to him, and he’d cry, especially after the song was played.

Little did Mr. Jim suspect that my Dad was having the time of his life. His first big city visit, to Norfolk, opened his eyes to the wonders of the world. Then he saw London, and Paris, as he made his way to his station in Germany. He was learning every day, and growing in character by leaps and bounds. He now knew that there was more to life than farming, and that the world was much bigger than he had ever imagined.

Dad returned home in 1960 to a celebration so large, you would have thought that he’d been to war. He had changed, they could see that. He was taller, and handsome, and he carried himself with a new regal air that came from a deep seated confidence. He was not the same young boy they had placed on that bus. He was better.

But he was the same boy that they had raised. They made all of his favorite dishes for his feast—greens, cornbread, roasted sweet potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, fried chicken, peach pie—and bananas. Lord, he did love his bananas! The way he ate showed them that he had not changed that much.

Dad always fondly reminisced his military days. As a child, he taught me the broken German he had learned, and excitedly told me—“You were almost born in Brooklyn! You see, when I came back from Europe, I came through New York. And, if I could have found a job there, I would have sent for your mother.” The big city was now in his blood.

He opted to settle in Chicago instead…

For Veterans Day, I think every family in America can tell a story—something they’ve heard, someone they know, or an incident they recall that helps them appreciate the sacrifice our soldiers make.

I chose to tell this story. For, in spite of all of the tragic losses, there are some young men who went to military service, and came home better for it. And that’s my hope for all of our soldiers—no more war, no more deaths, no more disfigurements. Just a great experience, protecting our country, and growing to adulthood.

So I will end this with the wish I carry in my soul each day--May peace reign on Earth, and may God keep our soldiers safe from hurt, harm and danger every day.

Thank you, U.S. veterans, for your sacrifice for us. You deserve more than we can ever give you—but I hope that our gratitude is enough of a token to let you know that your time served was not in vain.

We honor you, as we should. No one deserves it more.