Bud, wearing his veteran's hat, spoke to the staff on Memorial Day, as he always does. He reminded us of the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform. I listened with a heart still grieving the loss of my father. The first Memorial Day since his death. The first time in a long while that my siblings and I didn't visit him and thank him for his service.
As a child, I hung his photo on the bedroom wall, Dad looking dashing in uniform, a rare photo of him with a mustache and pipe. I loved the one of him wearing a Scottish kilt taken while stationed in England. I loved them all. I loved my Dad.
He returned from the war a bit quieter than he had been. So I was told. He was a gentle spirit, responding to a need, but not a solider at heart. He was proudest of Operation Chowhound, or Manna, as our Cousins in the Netherlands called it. Near the end of the war, American and British airmen flew over the country devastated by the German army. Bridges had been bombed, fields flooded, canals mined. The Dutch people were starving.
I have heard the story from my father, from family in the Netherlands, and from a couple there who still live by the field where they watched bombers fly low, dropping not bombs, but boxes and tins of food: Operation Manna. Read More