This past Thursday, November 11th, I was at the fancy new post office in Boulder buying stamps from the vending machine. In case you didn’t immediately make the connection, Nov 11th is Veterans Day in the U.S. and is recognized by the Federal Government, including postal employees, as a holiday. As such, the bank was closed, except the self-service machines and the public mail boxes. Anyway, I’m there starring at the machine and deliberating on whether to buy the flag stamps (Since 9/11, I’ve developed a mental association between the displaying of the flag and ultra conservative, blindly patriotic pro-US rhetoric which I still haven’t been able to overcome) or pay extra for the Breast Cancer or Child Abuse fund raising stamps.

Suddenly the creasing of my frontal lobe is interrupted by a guy asking me if I knew when the Post Office counter would be open. I quickly pointed out that today was a federal holiday and returned to my quandary. However, this guy walked my way and let out a quip that really shook me. He simply said “What? Veterans Day isn’t a real holiday. These post office folks will make any excuse to get off work.”.

Now, as you can see from my flag stamp problem, I’m definitely not the patriotic type. In fact, I’m not even particularly pro-military, being that I’m a long-haired, pacifist, vegetarian, bunny-hugging commie. One thing I am, even if I’m not particularly fond of our country at the moment, is a major history buff. I can quote from memory most of the facts and major events of wars from 1776 to the 1980s. I have memorized even trivial items from WWI and WWII. This, at least to me, is living history. History which connects directly to my life through my relatives.

Finally, I am constantly aware of the tremendous achievements that soldiers in all wars, and particular the two World Wars, have brought about and I regularly find myself lacking when compared to what these people have experienced and accomplished. I’m not sure I could survive a day in the winter of 1944 in the forests of Germany or in the summer of ‘44 in the jungles of New Guinea. Yet my Grandfather Cecil marched through France, Belgium and Germany for a year with the 3rd Army. And my great-uncle Charlie spent three months in the jungles of New Guinea after his bomber was downed. These men survived something beyond my imagination but lived on to be loving, caring men.

Certainly men worthy of respect and definitely men worthy of a holiday.

[image from virtualtourist.com]