Texas WW II Memorial Day

My Dad served nearly four years in the Army during WW II, and I'm of course, proud of his service. But fortunately, his service was all state-side, and his only tales of derring do involved a happy coincidence which kept him OUT of the Battle of the Bulge, and later, after the War ended, of his humorous way out of the service. Memorial Day is to honor those killed in action, and the holiday always takes me back to a remarkable experience Wifey and I shared back in 1995 or so. We took our first exotic vacation -- a "destination cruise" that left from Istanbul and ended in Venice, on a small ship called the Marco Polo. It was a very upscale trip -- our celebration of my starting to hit it pretty big in the PI Law business. We left the Ds, then 4 and 7, with Wifey's parents, and jetted off to the dividing line between Asia and Europe. We met an interesting array of folks, including the first tech millionaires we ever encountered, a couple from SF who had just sold their business and were off seeing the world. They were lovely -- the fellow was Cuban, originally from Miami, and went to Stanford to study computers and met his California wife, a lovely and large lady who, comically, was too much for the little moped we rented in Mykonos...memories I treasure still. But we became good friends with a most unlikely family -- a Greatest Generation couple from Midland, Texas, traveling with their daughter and granddaughter who had just become a third generation Texas A and M Aggie alum. These folks were VERY Texan -- big hair, accents out of the show "Dallas," and very, very Christian -- especially the Grandma, Crystal. We met them while touring the Topkapi Palace, a place where ancient treasures are kept,and where, walking around, I truly felt like I had made it to an exotic place. I mean, I was a middle class Jewish kid from Long Island, and I was touring freaking TURKEY? Anyway, back at the ship we started spending a lot of time, and became fast friends. Phil, the grandpa, was a retired "oil and gas man" who I sort of gleaned was VERY rich, even though he dressed and carried himself like he was a former derrick worker. He and I talked college football -- a LOT -- and by the end of the trip had become honorary Hurricane and Aggie fans. Years after our trip, after a particularly great victory, the phone in our old house would ring, and a happy, Texas voice would proclaim "This my boy Dave???? Your Canes sure looked FINE tonight!" The Fouches were friends with "W" and his family, and Wifey had no idea who they were talking about. We sure learned, though, when their buddy was elected president. We learned they family was on an errand as well as a celebratory trip. Phil was a WW II hero, wounded during the Battle of Monte Cassino in Italy, and had received word that a memorial plaque had been placed in the Village Green of the town of Cassino. Phil wanted to visit and say a prayer, and planned to take the train to Cassino from Rome, while the ship was docked there. Wifey and I asked if we might go along, and Phil and Crystal asked why in the world we'd give up an entire day of Roman sightseeing to go to that dusty little town. I clammed up, and Wifey explained that my Dad was a WW II Vet, I still missed him terribly, and spending a day with Phil and his family appealed to me far more than standing on line to see some crumbling buildings. So the excursion was set, and we trained it to what was indeed a dusty, little town, where no one spoke any English. We wandered around, this couple from Miami, and family of four Midland/Odessa folks, having no idea where the Town Center might be. I found a fellow, and comically pantomimed asking where the Police were -- play acting getting arrested and handcuffed, and somehow getting across the request for police. It worked! We found the Village Square, and sure enough, there were a few rusting American tanks and large guns. And we found the plaque -- dedicated to Phil's division, and how many had died as they rousted the Germans from their mountaintop stronghold. Phil dropped to his knee, and started to cry. We all hugged him, and he just kept repeating how many good buddies he lost that day. We shuffled back towards the train station, and stopped for some, of course, pizza. It was a moment I'll never forget. Phil explained that he spent the duration of WW II helping to sell War Bonds, returned to civilian life, and helped build his family. He was, to me, a true man in full. The last night of the trip, Crystal took Wifey's hands, and told her how close she felt to her, which was why she hoped Wifey and I might please, please consider accepting Jesus Christ as our personal savior. Crystal's daughter and granddaughter were horrified -- "MOTHER!!!!" Wifey and I weren't offended at all. We understood that Crystal, as a true Christian, simply wanted to share with us her source of comfort and direction. I made her laugh and told her I'd be sticking with corned beef sandwiches and Woody Allen movies. And indeed our friendship endured. Phil died a few years back, and I made a contribution to a WW II foundation in his memory. And still , these so many years later, I think of him and I thank him and his buddies. I'm so thankful that I never had a personal errand like Phil's -- my buddies travails were limited to choosing graduate programs, and the occasional failed marriage. But for Phil, Memorial Day was very, very real.