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Memorial Day in my home town always meant marching with the high school band to the cemetery. Since I played the snare drum, it meant keeping the cadence and remembering to play on the rim once we entered the flag-lined grounds where a crowd was gathered. It meant beginning the drum roll for the Star Spangled Banner.
Memorial Day was listening to the local Legion Post pay tribute with speakers and a 21 gun salute. It was itching in that band uniform while the Gold Star Mother was honored and Taps were played by Ken and Jane.
Marching out of the cemetery and back to the high school where we had all gathered earlier in the morning was probably at a little faster pace as I was young, and the really important thing was getting to the lake for the day.
I had not lost a family member or a close friend to a war. Both of my dad’s brothers fought in World War ll, but we were fortunate because they came home. They married and we had lots of family dinners and holidays together. I saw the medals and the hole in Uncle Delbert’s helmet from the bullet, but only years later did I realize it wasn’t just a cool souvenir. The bullet hole was a reminder of how close he had come to death and returning to Arcadia under a flag.
Uncle Louis and Aunt Dorothy went to the reunions every year for the men who survived in his unit. Each year there were fewer attendees. Unfortunately his health, mostly his eye sight, kept him from the last few. He and Delbert lived into their nineties, and the picture of the elderly man with the shadow soldier behind him reminds me of them. They were our funny, lovable uncles who helped save the world.
Memorial Day isn’t a day of remembrance for those who came home, it’s for the ones we lost. I didn’t understand the weight so many have borne when I was itching in that band suit. I have a much better understanding now, and would gladly adjust that drum strap and let the sweat run down my back without batting an eye. I would listen with respect and be humbled to have the chance to honor them. The haunting final notes of Taps would find a tear sliding down my cheek.
Memorial Day has nothing to do with printing t-shirts. This holiday weekend, while many celebrate the informal beginning of the summer season, we mustn’t forget to remember and honor the men and women who have lost their lives to war, serving our beloved country. The true meaning of the day…Never forget.
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]]>Living on the farm the boys were able to run in and out of the house all day. Between meals they would play with their toy tractors and trucks out in the gravel, or swim in the little turtle pool in the front yard. Bryan would play until he could hitch a ride in a tractor, leaving Adam and Preston to their own devices.
My days were spent on typical things like cooking, cleaning, hanging out laundry to dry on the clothesline, and keeping an eye on the boys as they were five and younger.
Adam, the 3 1/2 year old, loved being outside. In the dead of winter we would spend ten minutes bundling him up just so he could step outside for maybe all of five minutes. But those five minutes refreshed that little soul.
On this particular summer day, I heard Adam come in the front door, letting it slam behind him. I was cleaning the bathroom and I could tell he was excited by his “Mom! Mom! See my new pet!”
In his dirty little clenched fist was an earthworm. He stretched it out and said “See how big he gets?” Adam was so pleased with his find, and delighted in showing me several times how big the worm stretched out to.I said all the mom things like “well look at that, oh he is a big one! Where did you find him? What are you going to name him?” Worm was to be his name.
Adam announced they were going back outside to play, so he left the bathroom and headed to the front door. Instead of hearing the door open, I heard this: “Worm, move. Move Worm!” Then again, and this time my little boy was panicked, so I went to him and I knew with one quick look that Worm was gone.
I pulled him onto my lap and Adam and I talked about how maybe the worm had been stretched one too many times. Worms don’t have bones so if he decided to have another worm, he would need to be more careful. I said that I was sorry about his pet. We hugged, he shed a couple of tears, and then took Worm out to bury him.
Honestly, I didn’t think much more of it that day. But that night when I tucked Adam into bed, he gave me a big hug and said “Thank you for caring about Worm.” In teaching a lesson, I’d learned one of my own.
Something I had dismissed, had meant a great deal to that tow headed little boy.
So, the lesson I learned was this: The small things matter. A word. A hug. A kind gesture. Listening. Because we don’t know what the important things are to everyone, we must be conscious of the small things that we can do every day for others. In our families, our lives, and in our businesses, the small things matter.
At Ink Images Custom Apparel, we bring the small town get to know your neighbor feel to each customer we work with. Your thoughts and how you visualize your apparel are important, and we will do everything we can to give you that final product. Because of Worm, we listen and remember that the small things matter.
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