Today I experienced the world of a true hero. No, he wasn’t a duke or a prince. He wasn’t incredibly handsome and wealthy. He was in his 80s, the father of several wonderful children with children of their own. But he was a true hero. He’d seen action in World War II which would have meant death for lesser men. I didn’t even know he existed until just a few years ago, when his exploits in the war were chronicled in a television series about soldiers and he had been interviewed. In fact, he was a cousin of my father’s, a fact I just learned not long ago.
In my world of writing, heroes are usually hunks…with piercing blue eyes, sensuous lips and wonderful soft hair, rippling muscles and manors on hillsides. I adore writing of Regency England and all the gentry of the era. However, in this man’s world heroes were young men, often no more than eighteen years of age, who trudged through the mire and the mud and the brush to serve their country. Some of those boys had never been more than fifty miles from home when they were called to serve. And serve they did. At the burial today were several old men, their faced lined with wrinkles and their eyes now dulled by age. They all wore the familiar red cap of vets, and they all lined up to say their goodbyes to one of their own. It was an incredibly humbling experience for me. I think one of my next projects will be an homage to these dear sweet men who gave so much to serve their country. You see, they still carry those days within their hearts..they may not speak of them, or perhaps they do now…while they are older and wiser. But they were hunks and heroes too, in their time.
Bless them all,