Happy Memorial Day!
Memorial Day is one of my favorite holidays. I love to attend the town parade and watch the school bands march down Main Street. I love the feeling of community as I stop and say hello to people I know. I love the pride I feel when I see the flag standing out against the sky. And I love to attend the Memorial Day ceremony at the town cemetery, to listen to our local veterans speak, to take the time to think about and remember what it means to live in a country where "all men are created equal," where we have the right to believe and say whatever we want, without fear of persecution.
Throughout the years, thousands upon thousands of American men (and women!) have sacrificed their lives so that we can have all those freedoms we so casually take for granted.
There's a cemetery in France, in Normandy, right near Omaha Beach, where there are countless rows of white crosses and Stars of David -- one for each of the American soldiers who died during the June 6th, 1944 D-Day invasion.
It stretches out impossibly far, marking thousands of graves.
I've never been there -- I hope to visit someday, to pay my respects, and to remember. Each of those crosses and stars is there in memory of a life, a person, a man. Each of those men had mothers, families, girlfriends, wives. Each had a story, some simple, some complex -- and all cut tragically short.
Today, I listened to a member of my community, Robert Anderson, himself a Vietnam Veteran, speak of his uncle who died in World War Two. His uncle's name was Martin Mead, and he served, as a young man, in the Philippines. He was there when General MacArthur was forced to surrender in 1942.
He was one of thousands of American soldiers, starving and out of ammunition, who were taken prisoner by the Japanese. He was one of thousands who were lined up, four deep, and forced to walk 65 miles in what became known as the Bataan Death March. If soldiers became too ill, if men fell beside the trail unable to walk any further, they were shot and killed. Over 5,500 American soldiers died during that Death March, but Martin Mead survived. He was taken to a POW camp in Manchuria where he faced no food, freezing temperatures and abuse at the hands of his captors.
And it was there that he died, in 1944.
Mr. Anderson spoke of this uncle that he never had the chance to know, saying that nearly everyone who remembered him was now gone.
Today, I'm remembering Martin Mead, and I hope you'll take a moment to remember him, too. Martin -- and all of the other thousands upon thousands whose sacrifice touched so many lives all those years ago, and who still have the power to reach forward through time nearly 60 years, and touch our lives today.
Happy Memorial Day.