November 11 is a day in which the United States designates to honor military veterans.  It is a happier holiday for me than Memorial Day, as that is a time for recognizing all who were killed in the line of defense since the “founding” of this nation.  Today however is a day which honors all persons who have served in the U.S. Armed Forces.  It coincides with Armistice Day, commemorated every year on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, marking the end of World War I.  Armistice Day is celebrated by countries all over the world.  My father was proud to be an American, and he was deeply patriotic.  This picture here is of one of the little flag pins he always wore on his lapel — far before it became fashionable.  I can remember seeing him proudly don it every day ever since I was little.  My father joined the military right out of high school in order to pay for his college education.  He and Mama were high school sweethearts:  she, the prettiest girl in school who shopped at Neiman’s, and he the dark boy from (literally) the “wrong” side of the tracks.  My father fought for eight years in the Korean War.  During all that time he wrote my mother faithfully and sent her back beautiful gifts “from the Orient.”  He got her porcelain china for when they would marry, ivory (before everyone realized how cruel the elephant trade is), semi-precious jewel sets with tanzanite and tourmaline, and pearls.  What my mother really wanted was my father.  He signed up for his second term without even asking her and she had been waiting for him for four years already.  My mother’s family took it as an opportunity to send her to Florida during the summers, where she stayed with her very wealthy aunt and uncle as they threw party after party to introduce her to “society” boys.  Her Aunt was invited to Grace Kelly’s wedding and when their first child was born Aunt Phil sent a mobile she’d made from the rare shells of Sanibel Island.  They were held together with fishing wire and hung gracefully in varying degrees from driftwood she’d found.  Princess Grace was so enchanted by her thoughtful gift she’d handwritten her a thank you note, which her aunt framed and, Mama said, kept in her guest bathroom.  Meanwhile, my father was working his way up from the lowest level soldier in the army, a Private, to what I believe is called a Specialist.  I am embarrassed to admit I know very little for two reasons.  One:  my father did not brag.  And two:  any discussion of his time at war upset my mother terribly.  Here is what I do know … he was, at some point, stationed out of Fort Sill Oklahoma and became blood brothers with a Comanche in a very elaborate ceremony by the man’s father before they were shipped out.  I know my father was captured and had his feet frozen.  He and two other low-ranking men (they had already killed their Commanding Officers) escaped into the snow in the dead of night wearing only their Long Johns … each going a different direction.  My father was able to piece together he was wandering for three days before the Greeks (and our allies) picked him up.  He told me he was so grateful they took him to a Norwegian hospital.  There they plunged his feet in ice cold water and he said they slowly warmed them up over the course of two days.  Daddy said an American hospital at that time would have amputated them both right away.  For the record, my father’s feet always turned a bit bluish in the winter … but he had all of his toes and his feet.  Daddy died next to my mother out of the blue of a heart attack at only 66 years of age.  At aged 28 I found myself without my greatest mentor and was left with the responsibility of caring for my widowed mother, who was lost without my father.  I made sure he received a full military burial complete with a 21 gun salute.  I was so very proud he had a Seminole pallbearer, as well a black one, a Jewish one, and white ones.  Men from all over came up to me and told me of my father’s bravery, and of how he never lost a man on night patrol.  He became a sharp shooter (sniper) I believe thanks to him growing up with his full-blood Choctaw grandparents.  Sometimes he had terrible nightmares and once I saw a wicked looking scar on his chest which he said came from a bayonet; meaning he was in hand-to-hand combat.  I was told he was the first man to become an honorary citizen of two countries and he simply sent his Greek Medal of Honor home to my mother.  The only way he ever told me about his time at war was when I asked why he didn’t like certain things.  He said he could not stand the sight or smell of barbecued chicken because he had so much of it in their MREs (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) and he also had to have his back against the wall whenever we went to a restaurant.  He said he just didn’t feel safe if he could not survey the room.  The American politician Charles B. Rangel said, “To honor the legacy of veterans and the democratic principles they fought for, I am glad that I introduced the Korean War Veterans Recognition Act which was enacted in 2009.”  My father always said it was “The Forgotten War.”  I believe that anyone who has endured the horrors of war, whether it was during the Holocaust or Vietnam, can never forget.  Let us always remember and honor both the known and unknown, all of whom have their own stories which may have tragically become lost over time.  God bless and keep all of our soldiers this and every Veteran’s Day.