BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

In 1944 I was a six year old sitting beside my Dad in his Oldsmobile as we drove down Ingraham Street in Brooklyn. A few weeks before I had asked him about the Gold Star banners that were hung, like shades, in many of the windows of the tenements that we passed. He explained what they meant, but promised me that Brother Joe would be okay.

But now, as we passed them again, two weeks later, I realized for the first time the overwhelming enormity that they signified for the mothers and dads who sat behind them; and I doubted my father for the first time. I wondered how could he promise me that nothing would happen to Brother Joe?

I hoped that nothing would happen to him -- but I knew that even my Dad couldn't protect him.

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

The meaning of our life is not within the material things that we leave to our heirs.
M. Gross