Memorial Day: A Parade of One

It rained all night before that Memorial Day. I was ten years old and terrified that the parade would be canceled and the soldiers wouldn't march. I woke up early and raced to the window to see if the weather had improved. My squeals of happiness at the rising sun were echoed by our rooster and I ran from bedroom to bedroom to wake everyone up. We arrived on the parade route early and set up our colorful tribute to the Veterans who would be honored and the killed in action who would be remembered.

I had thought the candy would be most rewarding part of the parade that day, but I was wrong.

My mother wanted to shake hands with a World War II veteran and I tagged along with her while my siblings jockeyed for a spot in the free hot dog line. I was afraid of the old man in the sharp uniform. He sat crookedly in the chair and his hand was unsteady as he stretched it out to shake hands or salute a fellow soldier. He did not stand as he shook my mother's hand, but his head lifted and a smile fell across his face when he saw me peeking out at him.

"Well, hey there, little girl," he said softly, his voice full of vibration. "I didn't know I was going to see an angel today."

That was enough and I smiled as hard as I could when his hand engulfed mine. I thought that soldiers were hard, but his hand was like velvet and I wiggled my fingers against his palm. I impulsively hugged him and his gleeful laughter sounded like music. His eyes shone brightly when I kissed his cheek and told him I was glad he was alive. We walked away, but I looked back in time to see him salute another soldier.

From our blanket on the lawn in front of the courthouse, I watched in awe as two Marines helped my soldier up the steps and lowered the microphone so he could speak into it. Back bowed, he was tiny, but when he spoke his voice was strong. And I listened with all my heart as he spoke of courage, determination, and the fire that burns inside a soldier. Be strong. Be fearless in life. Be dedicated to your family and stand firm against adversaries. Believe, believe, believe in yourself. I didn't know what half of that meant, but when I went home, I drew an angel in my notebook and wrote 'believe' under it.

Fast forward a few years, and I was a teenager who snuck off to Atlanta for a concert I wasn't allowed to attend. On the way back to our car, I spotted an old man sitting in a wheelchair on the sidewalk. He wore filthy Army fatigues. This was my first real encounter with the homeless, and my heart shattered as I watched people pretend he wasn't there. I broke away from my friends and walked up to him. He couldn't lift his head to see me because of the huge hump on his back. I fished the ten dollars I had mowed the lawn twice to earn out of my pocket and held it out to him.

His hands shook as he held an aluminum can out to me.

I put the money in the can and said, "I'm sorry I don't have more, sir. God bless you."

His voice was filled with gravel and age, "God has blessed me. I didn't know I was going to see an angel today."

Tears blinded me as I walked away.

I'll never know if he was the same old man I had hugged all those years ago. What I do know is I can thank him, not only for his service, but for the punishment that awaited me at home when I tearfully blurted out my encounter with him to my mom.  I lost my Atari and my boom box, but it was worth it.

The following weekend I convinced my mother to take me back to Atlanta so we could give him some more money and some sandwiches I made.

We never did find him. I was too young to remember where his wheelchair was parked in the maze of Peachtree Streets that is Atlanta.

I've never forgotten that man.

I think he was courageous, had fire in his belly, stood firm, and believed with all his heart that defending our country was his call of duty.  It's a crying shame that the country forgot about him. The idea of a Veteran sleeping on the street is heartbreaking. If anyone deserves a safe place to sleep and enough food to fill their bellies, it's the men and women who have watched their friends die while they defended our independence as the Free World.

This Memorial Day I plan on shaking hands with every veteran, young or old, who marches to the courthouse. I plan on looking into their eyes when I tell them I appreciate their bravery and it's because of them that I believe angels exist.

I know . . . because I was touched by one.