So, Terry sent out this email and it struck me as one of his better, more introspective, thought provoking ones. I hope he's not going to kill me for posting it but I thought it deserved to be kept in the archive:
Naturally, I woke up late after partying the previous night at a wedding. The Memorial Day parade had already started when I came running through a crowd of people into the marching band without the band director noticing. Just one of those fun teenage memories I had long forgotten about until last year when I again awoke late after being a wedding. Unlike that day my senior of high school, this was the first time I attended a parade as a soldier. All of those years going to parades for a variety of reasons, sports teams, boy scouts, marching band (the dork that I was) last year I attended a number of ceremonies that gave tribute to those who sacrificed their lives for our country. 
During the final ceremony, they raise the flag and sound taps. As soon as the color guard fired their first shot, it felt like a thunder bolt when right through me; that cold tremor that just shakes you and I simply fell apart. It wasn’t just a simple tear, I was sobbing. As soon as I lowered my hand from saluting, a woman walked over and asked if she could hug me. Not being able to speak I just nodded yes. The crowed who had been speaking throughout the ceremony fell silent and stared. Normally, I would have been so embarrassed but honestly it was the first, and only, time I have every shown that kind of emotion and I think it was one of those rare moments between people when the feelings were just mutual. They looked at me and realized that it was not just another holiday of sales, barbeques and an extra day off that kicks off summer. Looking at their faces, I realized it would never again be the same holiday I remember as a child but instead a reminder of those who were lost.
That day proved to be the most difficult one I have had since returning home. I spent most of the day trying not get physically sick, every time someone walked up to me and thanked me I would just get nauseous. I have never felt like such a fraud. I had done nothing special and more importantly, I was alive. While I lost no close friends, I could not stop seeing the faces of those I worked with; thinking of their families without them; their children without them on a beautiful May Day. It wasn’t until late in the day when I found some comfort. A older gentleman approached me and asked if I was a helicopter pilot. As soon as I said yes, his eyes filled with tears. He immediately hugged me and whispered “You saved my life twice in Vietnam.” Obviously, I had never been to Vietnam but I found comfort knowing that I was not the only one struggling through the day.
Don’t get me wrong I have always loved my country but I’m telling you that I love it so much more now. I don’t have flashbacks like what we see in the movies. I have been home a long time now but I do have unexpected moments that I hope will always keep my priorities in life in check. Watching my son play today, I thought to myself it just doesn’t get any better and that freedom was paid for by generations of Americans. Most under that age of twenty five that went and fought for our way of life.
Working in D.C. this week I visited many monuments and statues in my free time and while they are beautiful symbols of our nations history, to me they were just stone, raw materials. I now believe the true testament to these hero’s can be found in our everyday life. Who we are as a people, our values, our hope. It’s a terrible knowing that the last moments of these soldiers lives were violent and while I will never try to speak for them, or any soldier, I do believe that they fought not for political agendas but for one another. So their children would never see the violent side of the world.
Obviously, I’m struggling a little bit today hence the email at two in the morning. I just felt the need to say something out loud. While they are no longer with us, I believe they still have a voice and for me it says don’t forget about us and remember what we have is a gift so make the best of it.
for Wyatt. On my Dad’s urging. We pulled my Mom’s old rusted Swinn Cruiser from the shed and attached the seat on the back. Requiring a few trips to the hardware store and several tool exchanges from Wyatt. On a valiant effort, I decided to ride up this huge (in Long Island perspective) hill to the library on Wyatt and I’s maidien voyage. I think this seat is solidifying my “granola” status. I find it refreshing traveling in such an old fashion way. Riding bikes can never be out dated. By the time we got to the library, I was dying; sweating profusely, gasping for breath, legs like jelly. Wyatt was swinging his helmet on his pinkie finger proclaiming the exhilarating ride. I am proud to say the ride home was much easier although I didn't quite trust the brakes. I am looking forward to our next adventure. Maybe I'll get a basket to go on the front for Pup. Too much?
