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, 101st
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.
