In April of 1942, a 19 year old from Glendive Montana died on the Bataan Death march, in the Philippines. Thousands of miles away from his home. His older brother was taken prisoner less than month later when Corregidor was surrendered and spent the next 3 years and 5 months in Japanese prison camps. Two kids from the far end of Montana who joined the Army and sent their pay home to support their family destitute from the Depression.
The older brother survived the war and named his first born son after his kid brother. And I wear that name proudly.
I take this Memorial day to remember. I know the day doesn't mean something to everyone, but it does me.
It is good to remember.
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