Remembering Our Fallen Heroes
My Dad died almost seven years ago. At the time, my wife Heidi and I lived out West and we were expecting our first child. I distinctly remember talking with my Dad on July 4, 2001. It was, in fact, the last time we would ever speak. My Dad spoke to me from his hospital bed.
The next day was his 72nd birthday and he was scheduled for an operation. He wanted to know about his soon‐to‐be‐born grandson. Ever since he had learned that Heidi was pregnant, he had carried around the ultrasound pictures of his grandson and spent every waking moment preparing to be a grandfather. In our last conversation, he said, “If anything happens to me tomorrow, you take care of your Mother, look out for your brother and make sure that my grandson is raised right.”
I told him that he would be fine and that there was no need to have this conversation, but he would have none of that. “Please, if anything does happen, tell my grandson I love him and will always love him,” he said. The surgery went alright, but my Dad picked up an infection and after battling it for a few weeks, his body just could not do it anymore.
In Jewish tradition, a funeral is to take place within a day of the death. I was three thousand miles away, my wife was overdue with our first child and I didn’t know how I would be able to fly back to Florida for my Dad’s funeral. My Mom reminded me that our faith tells us that our obligation and duty is to the living. She reminded me that my Dad wanted me to look out for his grandson and that my place was there.
And so, my brother brought his cell phone to the chapel so I could listen to my Dad’s funeral without actually being there. I have felt since then that I somehow let my father down by not being there. I have believed that I failed my Mom and brother, as well. My son was born four days after my Dad died and we named him in honor of the grandfather he would never know.
When we visited with my Mom over Thanksgiving last year she mentioned that the new South Florida National Veterans’ Cemetery was finally open and that my Dad was entitled to be buried there. He was a decorated veteran, after all. I handled the arrangements and, earlier this month, we made the trip to the Veterans’ Cemetery.
As we entered the grounds, I noticed that the American flag was flying at half‐staff. Silently, I wondered why. We were early and as I went into the office for the very final details, I met the three men who would form the Honor Guard from the Army. I thanked each of them and was humbled beyond all words when each of them offered first their sympathies to me, and then their thanks. I simply could not understand why they were thanking me.
They were about to stand in an 85‐degree Florida day with bright sunshine blazing while wearing their full dress uniforms. They thanked me for giving them the opportunity to honor one of their own. A fallen hero.
They wanted to know about my Dad and his service. I told them of his service in Korea and Japan, and we chuckled about how he had lost a stripe shortly before he was discharged for getting into a fight. It happens, they said, and all nodded their heads in agreement while smiling.
Then they explained the way the ceremony would work. I was to carry the urn holding my father’s ashes and give it to the soldier on my left. The folded American flag was to be given to the soldier on the right. That job was to be Harry’s.
The family had discussed whether the children should be present. We all agreed it would be best that three-year‐old Joe and five‐year‐old Julia stay at home. But we struggled with whether six‐year‐old Harry should attend as a spectator or active participant. I thought of my Dad and what he would have wanted. I remembered my Dad instructing me to raise his grandson right, and the decision became obvious. What could be more fitting than for his grandson to present the flag in his honor, I thought.
I reviewed with Harry what he would do, and why he would do it. I reminded him that the flag was never to touch the ground and told him how his Grandpop Harold had fought for it and our country, and that now he would be honoring his grandfather by honoring the flag.
Harry and I approached the Honor Guard together. The two soldiers saluted. First I handed over the urn, and then Harry presented the flag. He stood up straight and was more dignified and respectful than I have ever seen him. At the end of the service, my Mom was presented with the flag, which she took and then immediately gave to Harry. She reminded him that he had been named in honor and memory of his grandfather and told him how proud his Grandpop Harold is of him.
There is a custom at Jewish burials to throw a hand full of soil into the grave. It is an important ritual because it is a favor that can never be repaid. We each tossed some dirt and knew that my Dad was in a place that exists solely to honor heroes. My Dad had earned his spot among his comrades.
Harry clutched the flag and I clutched Harry, knowing that my son had performed acts of honor and duty for a man he never met but who knows him better than I ever will. And on the way out of the cemetery, I realized that the flag was at half‐staff to honor my Dad. I told Harry that his Grandfather loves him now and for always. That is what my Dad asked me to do.
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Originally Published by Jeff Katz on April 24, 2008. Jeff Katz is the morning host for RUSH Radio 1200 AM in Boston.
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