11/11/2025
My dad served in the Korean War.
When he returned home — on Veterans Day, of all days — he walked into a little neighborhood ice cream shop and met my mom. That chance meeting became the start of our family story.
My dad never talked much about the Army. In fact, I remember the day I realized he had even served — I was old enough to understand, and completely in shock. He wasn’t like the other dads who wore it on their sleeve, who told stories or kept old medals on display. My dad carried it quietly.
Sometimes I’d see the shadows of what he’d been through — the nights he’d wake up in a cold sweat, or the stretches of silence that would last for days. I once asked about the silver marks on his arm, and he brushed it off with a soft smile, saying, “Daddy just had to work.”
Years later, I learned what that really meant. My dad had been a flamethrower operator — one of the most dangerous jobs in the war — and those “silver marks” were his scars. He went on to become his troop’s sniper, a job that demanded unthinkable precision and carried unimaginable weight.
When I was older, I finally asked him why he never spoke about his service. He said,
“There’s not much to talk about. The things I did… I did to save my country and to save my brothers. I don’t talk about them because I’m not proud of them — but they had to be done. In life, you might not always like the things you have to do, but some things still need to be done.”
That’s the kind of man my father was — quiet, steady, and strong.
He taught me that real courage isn’t loud. It’s humble. It’s in the doing.
Today, on Veterans Day, I honor him — not just for his service, but for the grace with which he carried it.
And for walking into that ice cream shop all those years ago — the day that changed everything. ❤️🤍💙
