Veterans Day: To generations dead, crippled and haunted by war, thank you

Veterans Day.

In what has been a melancholy autumn for me, today is a time of reflection and perspective.

To take the second point, first: My disappointments and valley experiences with surviving several rounds of layoffs this year at work, the transitions in what had been a steady freelance writing contracting gig, and most of all the denouement of family relationships . . . all those things seem rather small compared to the sacrifices made by our soldiers, airmen and sailors.

From the American Revolution through the Civil War, World Wars I and II, to Vietnam and, I presume, even today, Mimses have served in uniform. 

 

Three Mimses are on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., cousins, black and white, who died in combat on the ground and in the air.

Air Force Capt. George Mims, of Manning, S.C., was shot down over North Vietnam in December 1965, never to be heard from again, an MIA eventually declared dead in 1973. His body was never recovered.

Third-class Petty Officer Felton Mims, a Texan, drowned in Go Cong Province, while serving on a Navy river patrol boat in March 1969. (That's him in the photo above, getting a haircut from a crewmate).

Army PFC Kenneth Mims, from Alabama, died when stepped on a land mine as he and other members of the B Company, 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry, 101^st Airborne Division patrolled near Thua Thien in April 1971.

Four of my uncles served and survived, albeit with nightmares, the crucible that was World War II in the Pacific.

The Civil War killed relatives by the dozens, North and South, white and black. It directly affected my line of the family, with my great-grandfather, wounded severely in Shiloh, was left crippled and dependent on morphine before he died, leaving my 7-year-old grandfather and his mother destitute.

His poverty and a brutal upbringing by an older brother haunted him, and by extension my own father, who struggled with a distant, demanding relationship with his Dad.

To a far lesser extent, I experienced some of the same in my early years, before a mild heart attack left my dad more engaged -- just in time for my critical teen years.

Two Mimses fought the British, another fought for them, in the Revolution.

Now, the reflection part? Somehow, today at least, I feel far less sorry for myself.

And on this day I am quietly, thoughtfully grateful to those who fought, and sometimes died for their principles and country.