The Rock Star section Heroes of RockTraveler.com is designed for our Travelers and Discovers to share stories of the real heroes and stars in all our lives. We want to hear about the people who have made your life better – a teacher, a parent, a brother or sister, a friend, a policeman or even something you’ve done that’s helped someone else. Remember when you have rock pals, you are never alone on this planet, we are always here to hang out, cyber chat and help out! Submit your hero!
My Hero Grandfather, a man we never knew.
My hero is a man I never knew. I heard stories when I was a little girl, and now at 20 years old, I had a chance to visit the place where my granddad was buried and think about how he fought for his country and gave his life for our freedom. Thanks Grandpa, in a world of turmoil, you are my hero.
We traveled to Virginia as a family, and this is my experience: The rows of white markers for the graves of the World War II soldiers seemed to go on forever and I had to fight back the tears that suddenly threatened to surface. I had already seen several famous graves here at Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia, like that of John F. Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy Onasis’ gravesites with the eternal flame burning continuously. Further along, I discovered the simple marker of Audie L. Murphy, who was the most decorated non-commissioned soldier of World War II. He had survived the war and come back to a successful career in Hollywood playing a soldier. I could still remember some of his movies I had watched as re-runs.
Perhaps the most emotional moment for me during this journey had been watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I had to wipe away a tear as a uniformed officer slowly carried a fresh wreath down to the tomb plaza and the black strip of mat that stretched out before the large white marble tomb. The young Marine carried the wreath as delicately as if he were carrying his grandmother’s priceless china vase. Carefully, he walked down the steps from the trophy room where he joined a Navy officer in full white dress and two other officers in dress uniform. They saluted the tomb as the guard who had been on duty, placed the wreath on the cement before the tomb, kneeling in a reverent manner. I could see white streaks where the black mat was worn from the continuous pacing. I watched as the Navy officer departed and three marines stood proud and tall, two facing one who was standing on the mat. The guard who was standing on the mat called orders out to the other two who snapped to attention and presented their arms. One of the marines then walked down to the end of the strip and stood to attention, his rifle held up against his broad shoulder. The guard standing on the mat then walked quietly in military precision down the strip, his heels clicking quietly in the air, and white gloved hands at his side. The attitude of dedication and respect touched me and I wondered if my grandpa had those same kinds of beliefs.
Letting the picture of the marine guard fade, I refocused my eyes on the rows of white markers that spread out before me. There were so many, I couldn’t help thinking--so many who didn’t come home. I noticed that there were other people like me—carrying a paper in their fingers, searching through the seemingly endless waves of names.
There it was. I stared at the simple white marker for a long moment. Here was the man I had never met. The rains native to the east coast were starting to take their toll on the inscribed lettering. The name was starting to fade along with the small cross that was etched above the name. I knelt down and caressed the old stone marble gently. “Hi grand-dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I haven’t come before.”
I closed my eyes against the rain, lifted my head and saw images flooding into my mind. Pictures of my grandpa in military uniform that sat on the shelf in the living room when I was small. The flag that had draped his coffin in a glass case along with the medals he had been given posthumously.
My grandfather died in France in World War II long before I was born, as so many other soldiers had. He could easily have been one of the unknown soldiers who were brought home in caskets. We have the letters that he had sent home regularly to his young wife, my grandma and his unborn child, my mom. They had been framed and sealed to protect them. He had never shared his war experiences in the letters, but had described the scenery before him and the charming French villages. What he had seen, I wondered. A couple of years ago, for my high school senior report, I had read many books on WW II. This visit reminded me of all those stories and the people involved.
I spent a long time talking to the grave and telling my granddad what great kids he had, my mom, uncles and single aunt. We all remember him fondly and I have to thank him for giving his life so that we could be free. No ones life is perfect, but we sleep at night in peace and safe. “Thank you grand-dad,” I said. “Thank you for preserving my freedom.”
The Rock Star section Heroes of RockTraveler.com is designed for our Travelers and Discovers to share stories of the real heroes and stars in all our lives. We want to hear about the people who have made your life better – a teacher, a parent, a brother or sister, a friend, a policeman or even something you’ve done that’s helped someone else. Remember when you have rock pals, you are never alone on this planet, we are always here to hang out, cyber chat and help out! 
Perhaps the most emotional moment for me during this journey had been watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I had to wipe away a tear as a uniformed officer slowly carried a fresh wreath down to the tomb plaza and the black strip of mat that stretched out before the large white marble tomb. The young Marine carried the wreath as delicately as if he were carrying his grandmother’s priceless china vase. Carefully, he walked down the steps from the trophy room where he joined a Navy officer in full white dress and two other officers in dress uniform. They saluted the tomb as the guard who had been on duty, placed the wreath on the cement before the tomb, kneeling in a reverent manner. I could see white streaks where the black mat was worn from the continuous pacing. I watched as the Navy officer departed and three marines stood proud and tall, two facing one who was standing on the mat. The guard who was standing on the mat called orders out to the other two who snapped to attention and presented their arms. One of the marines then walked down to the end of the strip and stood to attention, his rifle held up against his broad shoulder. The guard standing on the mat then walked quietly in military precision down the strip, his heels clicking quietly in the air, and white gloved hands at his side. The attitude of dedication and respect touched me and I wondered if my grandpa had those same kinds of beliefs. 
My grandfather died in France in World War II long before I was born, as so many other soldiers had. He could easily have been one of the unknown soldiers who were brought home in caskets. We have the letters that he had sent home regularly to his young wife, my grandma and his unborn child, my mom. They had been framed and sealed to protect them. He had never shared his war experiences in the letters, but had described the scenery before him and the charming French villages. What he had seen, I wondered. A couple of years ago, for my high school senior report, I had read many books on WW II. This visit reminded me of all those stories and the people involved.
