I’ve never personally served in the military, but many of my friends and family have, including hubby who was in the Air Force, so I try to remember that Memorial Day is more than just blowing the dust off the old barbecue, hoping it’s warm enough to brave a trip to the pool, and planting all those veggie starters I didn’t get around to on Mother’s Day.  That doesn’t mean those things aren’t important.  Our freedom, bought with a very high price, ensures all of us get to throw some burgers on the grill and blow up flotation devices for the kids.  I’ve got an ancestor who fought in the Revolution, and am very glad he survived.  So, for me, today isn’t just about those who paid the ultimate price, but the survivors who carried the scars of war their whole lives.

I think a lot about those who fought back when this country hatched its rebellion.  We were ill-funded upstarts who could not even afford to pay regular wages to our army, fighting against a mighty superpower.  If luck had not been in our favor, would those who died been less honored for their sacrifice?  If a person fights for ideals and history judges those misguided, should their death be swept under the carpet? Those thoughts were in my mind as I drove my 6 year old and 4 year old to Mount Olivet Cemetery to place flowers on the graves of veterans.  Veterans who died in the Civil War.  Veterans who served the Confederacy.

I stood there, daunted by the endless line of soldiers who lost their lives while my two sons frolicked in the grass, happily placing individual flowers at whichever graves they chose.  The 6 year old carefully read the names, and told them “I’m sorry you died