To Our Readers:
Armed Forces Day is Saturday and I’d like to say thank you to all who are currently serving or have served this country. Your sacrifice and dedication are the very backbone of this great country of ours and we know the price of freedom. Most of us have been at funerals when the military have honored their own by folding an American flag and presenting it to a family member. We also know people who came back wounded physically or emotionally.
I hail from a family who believes in service. My husband’s family had quite an interesting military history and were cannon makers in the Revolutionary War – the one on top of Bunker Hill was forged by one of my husband’s great uncles John Calendar – but that was the last war that ever saw any Calendars.
The Shaughnessys, however, are another story. My dad, like so many others signed up for the Signal Corps the day after Pearl Harbor, leaving behind a pregnant wife who was carrying my older brother, Bill. He left with jet black hair and returned with 100 percent white hair. Dad served in North Africa and Italy and was responsible for going behind enemy lines and under enemy fire to set up telephone cable so the Pope could communicate with the outside world. He was a man who stood at attention when the National Anthem was played and our American flag was never exposed to darkness.
My brother, Bill, carried on that tradition. He went to the United States Naval Academy and served on a destroyer in the Mediterranean until volunteering to serve on Swift Boats in Vietnam. They were both heroes.
I never had an interest in going into the military although I hold them in great respect. I grew up in the generation when you played “Army.” The military have had a profound influence on me but none more than when I was young and attending John F. Kennedy’s funeral. We lived in McLean, Va. then and waited on line for hours at Arlington National Cemetery to pay our respects for the fallen president. When we reached the gravesite, it was surrounded by every branch of the military. As I was staring at the eternal flame – the one that unfortunately went out that very night – my father fell to his knees crying. I had never seen anything like it. I had never seen my dad cry, nor get on his knees other than when he was in church. He looked up at my mom and said, “Josie, there is something terribly wrong with this country.” I’m not sure if it was what he said, his posture or demeanor, but two military officers approached him and said, “Sir, may we assist, sir?” My father agreed and they helped him from his knees. He saluted them and they him. I looked out at the ellipse, down at the grave, and back at them and as I look back, that was the moment I decided to become a journalist. I just didn’t know it then. I didn’t want to carry a gun, ever, but I wanted to make my country strong. I wanted to help protect its freedom, independence and way of life. I wish I had thanked those men who helped my dad that horrible day. But the best I can do is thank all the armed services today for all you do.
Armed Forces Day is Saturday and I’d like to say thank you to all who are currently serving or have served this country. Your sacrifice and dedication are the very backbone of this great country of ours and we know the price of freedom. Most of us have been at funerals when the military have honored their own by folding an American flag and presenting it to a family member. We also know people who came back wounded physically or emotionally.
I hail from a family who believes in service. My husband’s family had quite an interesting military history and were cannon makers in the Revolutionary War – the one on top of Bunker Hill was forged by one of my husband’s great uncles John Calendar – but that was the last war that ever saw any Calendars.
The Shaughnessys, however, are another story. My dad, like so many others signed up for the Signal Corps the day after Pearl Harbor, leaving behind a pregnant wife who was carrying my older brother, Bill. He left with jet black hair and returned with 100 percent white hair. Dad served in North Africa and Italy and was responsible for going behind enemy lines and under enemy fire to set up telephone cable so the Pope could communicate with the outside world. He was a man who stood at attention when the National Anthem was played and our American flag was never exposed to darkness.
My brother, Bill, carried on that tradition. He went to the United States Naval Academy and served on a destroyer in the Mediterranean until volunteering to serve on Swift Boats in Vietnam. They were both heroes.
I never had an interest in going into the military although I hold them in great respect. I grew up in the generation when you played “Army.” The military have had a profound influence on me but none more than when I was young and attending John F. Kennedy’s funeral. We lived in McLean, Va. then and waited on line for hours at Arlington National Cemetery to pay our respects for the fallen president. When we reached the gravesite, it was surrounded by every branch of the military. As I was staring at the eternal flame – the one that unfortunately went out that very night – my father fell to his knees crying. I had never seen anything like it. I had never seen my dad cry, nor get on his knees other than when he was in church. He looked up at my mom and said, “Josie, there is something terribly wrong with this country.” I’m not sure if it was what he said, his posture or demeanor, but two military officers approached him and said, “Sir, may we assist, sir?” My father agreed and they helped him from his knees. He saluted them and they him. I looked out at the ellipse, down at the grave, and back at them and as I look back, that was the moment I decided to become a journalist. I just didn’t know it then. I didn’t want to carry a gun, ever, but I wanted to make my country strong. I wanted to help protect its freedom, independence and way of life. I wish I had thanked those men who helped my dad that horrible day. But the best I can do is thank all the armed services today for all you do.
