Freedom's Heat
Summertime once meant hot days on my grandparents' ranch. Grandma's lessons lingered long after those summers ended.
1970
It was a sweltering summer day when Grandma and I headed into town. The wheat fields along the road shimmered gold, heavy with ripe grain ready for harvest. We had stops at the butcher and grocery store to gather provisions for the long days of harvest ahead.
I loaded boxes into the trunk and packed ice chests with frozen meat as fast as I could, eager to escape the heat and return to the comfort of our air-conditioned car. Finally, we were on our way home.
As we passed the local cemetery, something unexpected happened. A long line of cars had gathered outside the gate. Without a word, Grandma slowed and pulled over, joining them.
"We need to step out," she said simply.
We stood together in the blistering heat, among at least fifty others who had paused their day to bear witness. A small family stood near a casket draped in the American flag. I was only twelve, but I knew what that meant. The rural community had lost a son to the Vietnam War.
No one moved. No one complained. The heat didn’t seem to matter. I looked around at the faces and saw only grief and quiet reverence.
The sound of a bugle playing taps floated across the cemetery and stayed with me long after the last note faded.
Back in the car, Grandma drove in silence until, finally, she spoke: "That family will never be the same. We should remember their loss."
For every brave soldier who died in service, there was a cost — not just for them, but for their families too. We honor their sacrifice by remembering them.
