Poppies after church.
The woman accepting donations for disabled veterans was an Air Force veteran.
Memorial Day Weekend 2015
Across the nation there were parades, memorial services, taps sounding in cemeteries, and specific names of friends and family on Facebook, asking for us to remember a lost friend, family member and soldier.
I received these two photos from my sister where she is visiting friends, south of Albany.
Mark’s birthday was today so his tribute was up for most of the 26th but didn’t want Memorial Day to pass without a post acknowledging it.
Some of the service member names engraved in bricks.
Twenty four notes. Taps.
The Origin of Taps, The Bugler’s Cry by “Jari Villanueva, a former ceremonial bugler at Arlington National Cemetery”
(General Daniel Butterfield- July 1862)
My son Mark photographed the Marine Corps War Memorial when the family visited Arlington Cemetery a few weeks ago. (The memorial is in Arlington VA, not in the actual cemetery)
When he showed me this photo today, I asked if he’d guest blog it for Memorial Day and he agreed. Mark was in the USMC for six years.
We went for a walk this morning and there’s a little white clapboard church about 1/2 mile up the road. Behind it was a small graveyard.
The third photo I took early Sunday in a rural cemetery by a headstone that had a flag in front of it.
This is the reflection (taken with a 70-200 Canon Lens L Series)
I read a moving article in the Roanoke Times (by Dan Casey) about the last of four brothers who served in WWII who tells the story of the other three who have gone on before.
This post is to remember all the men and women from every branch of the Armed Forces on Memorial Day 2013.
Photographed by Guest Blogger Mark, ( I loved the sun shining through the flag)
The VFW were outside the local Kroger
To read the poem In Flanders Fields written by Lt Col. John McCrae, MD, hailing from Canadian Army WWI click here and see the original copy handwritten in a page of notepaper.
A neighbor’s display in his yard. Each flag has a metal marker of a different war. Too many wars.
Family members plant flowers, trim grass, pull a few weeds, decorate graves of loved ones.
One time Mary and I scrubbed lichen off the granite with our toothbrushes. I saw a watering can hang from a spigot, a metal pipe in the ground. Boy Scouts place American flags by white stone veterans’ graves.
I remember when Bill played taps and as the clear notes sounded, the wind kicked up, blew swirls of dust and leaves, the sky got dark. And we all felt a shivering chill.
Each helmet bears a soldier’s name.