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On a hot July evening as I began my drive home, I automatically turned on the radio and began scanning the stations to find something that didn't require much thought. "Hmm." I caught a few words before my reflexes kicked in and I hit the button just in time to stop the scanning. For the next half-an-hour I was caught up in a discussion focused on the birth of our country and the men who gave so much to establish this nation. The program ended, I turned the radio off and realized that even though I knew these things, the words touched my heart as never before. Slowly my mind caught onto an experience from my childhood that I had not considered since it happened.
People had gathered to send off the 116th Engineering Battalion of the Idaho National Guard which had been placed on active duty in the Korean Conflict. As I stood with my family, I was intensely aware of a sense of pride as the soldiers in parade uniform marched past. There was something else--something virtually palpable. I couldn't explain it then, but now "pain" seems adequate.
The scene was vividly real. I visioned my older brother, Richard, looking handsome in his crisp uniform and highly shined boots. I had to smile at the thoughts of the boots. In my memory they had a life of their own. Each time before putting them on he would examine them, one at a time, with a scrutiny that was puzzling to me. Puzzling because I knew that no matter what, the ceremonious spit polish would follow. The boots always looked perfect to me before and after the polish routine. But regardless of anyone's assessment he would bring out the shoe shine box; retrieve the polish, a rag, and brush; open the polish can; and with one hand inside the boot he held the rag with his finger tucked just so and scooped a bit of the pungent polish from the can. Covering each boot with the precise amount of polish and then raising the boot within spitting distance, he would begin the process. Spit, brush, spit, brush, spit, brush until the boots gleamed with importance. After rigorous inspection and very few touch ups, the boots were ready.
So this day, along with his uniform, he had donned the boots and with the other men made the rounds of the parade field. Their pride was infectious and I gladly grasped a ration of it. Richard's face was different to me, strangely set, emotionless. My Dad wore a similar look. My Mother and older sister were crying. Richard's wife stood with her arms tightly wrapped around their baby. Her hands were trembling. I avoided looking at her face. A soldier with the same set look upon his face carried the flag, huge and rippling in the breeze. I thought that Richard should have been chosen to carry the flag. He was much more handsome than the other soldiers. The parade was over and people were scattering, many were crying. In my young mind I questioned why everyone was upset. It was all so impressive to me. This was absolutely the most exciting day I had experienced in my short life, why would anyone choose to cry?
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