November 11th took on added significance for me after Dad died in 1986.  He was born on November 11th, 1899 in Gorton, England.  During WWI, Dad’s ship was torpedoed.  The U-boat surfaced and machine-gunned survivors in the water.  He was grazed in the scalp and hit in his right knee.  Only a handful of the crew survived.  During WWII, he worked with British Naval Intelligence and later with the British Ministry of War Transport.  He took great pride in being a Brit, and in his adopted country.  He instilled that pride in my brother Ken and me.

Every Armistice Day (now Veterans Day) after 1986, at 10:30 AM, I would drive alone to the neatly tailored Memorial Park adjoining the Islip, Long Island Town Hall, set on a large corner lot facing Main Street, to observe the ceremony honoring the men and women who gave their lives in defense of our country.

Each year the crowd dwindled.  The ceremony is simple.  The weather alternated between blustery gusts with leaves blowing, to overcast with scudding gray clouds or occasionally rain and temperatures that chilled and hinted at the winter to come.  Memorial statues and plaques with names and wars etched in stone are ever present throughout the park.  Each year a speakers-rostrum is set-up at the back of the park.  Members of the VFW and the Islip Town Supervisor deliver short speeches.  A band accompanies the singing of our National Anthem.  Hats and caps are doffed.  A member of the clergy leads us in prayer. A lone bugler sounds taps.  The honor guard fires a rifle-volley.  The flag on the Memorial Flag Pole is lowered to half-mast.  At exactly 11:11AM a bell chimes at intervals as the flag is slowly raised to its original position.

The service is solemn.  Those present, some in uniforms that no longer fit.  Old proud veterans, some in wheel chairs, some on crutches, none to proud to shed a tear.

I stand each year by myself, on the edge of the sparse crowd alone with my thoughts and memories of Dad, and my brother Ken with whom I served aboard the USS Abbot (DD-629).  He died in 1995.  It’s a time to reflect and a time to take stock as the years pass by. To me, this has always been a very special occasion, an hour to be especially proud of my family and proud and humble to be an American.

This will be the first year I will not be there.  We moved to Essex, Connecticut last December.  No matter where I am this year, I will pause at 11:11 on 11/11 and remember!

George