"June 6, 1944"

D-Day, Normandy Beach, France...that's where my dad's only brother died.  His name was Eugene and he was 20 years old.  I never met him.  I wasn't born yet.  I felt like I knew him because I heard stories about him.  About how sweet he was and how people loved him, about my great-grandmother who never stopped grieving for her favorite grandson.  I've seen pictures of him.  He was a handsome young man, smiling and slight.  My dad was 4 years younger, taller and bigger.  My grandfather spent the rest of his life in depression over the loss of his oldest son.  My grandmother seemed to have come to terms with it by the time I was old enough to remember. My brother supposedly has his personality.  My dad has his purple heart and the flag presented to my grandparents.  One of my childhood memories is of my grandfather having us (the grandkids) stand up and put our hands over our hearts every time the National Anthem was played on TV.  A tribute to our country and the uncle who gave all.  He was buried in France.  In 1949, my grandparents had his body exhumed and brought home to Kentucky.  My mother said the day his funeral was held the church was overflowing and people stood outside on a cold, bitter winter day to honor him, 5 years after his death.  I've made sure my daughter knows his story.  I will tell it to my granddaughter when she is old enough to remember.  I visited his grave last week.  A photograph of him, smiling, in uniform, graces his headstone.  Forever young and always a hero to me.  

Take care, Sherry