Several years ago, well maybe more like seven or eight years ago, Barry Sherman called me. “Bobby!” Barry has always called me Bobby, I’m not sure why.

“Bobby! We are putting out flags for vets in area cemeteries and hoped maybe you could give us a hand.” Well, as anyone who knows Barry Sherman, when a task is at hand one must muster troops when available. Barry is an old buddy. I was available.

“We will meet at 0700. Phil Chapman and maybe one other person will be helping. Thanks Bobby, see you in the morning.” And so it goes.

First of all, I had no idea how many cemeteries there are in our towns. And, within these cemeteries the number of veterans! A small example of such a place can be seen in this week’s accompanying photo made at Oak Lawn cemetery, just off Route 96 on the way to East Boothbay. It’s not a huge property but the location is especially graceful, tucked into the woods with a varied terrain, quite private actually. As is often the case, now that we have lived here for a while, there are many familiar names and markers with small flags identifying veterans.

I never served in the military, but the college I attended in Pennsylvania had mandatory ROTC for all incoming male students. This policy was terminated shortly after my second year, but remained an available program (during the Vietnam War). I don’t know if the school offers ROTC anymore. I was in the first lottery for the draft.

Before college and ROTC I got a little exposure to military life. My father was a World War II Marine veteran. Although we didn’t discuss much about his experiences from Parris Island, S.C., to the South Pacific, he did employ some behavior modification, in retrospect, “techniques” modified from his military experiences. And, I was the first born and only boy in our family. 0700 was a cake walk!

Dad joined the Marines as a pretty young fellow from a small town. It’s hard for me to imagine what so many military folk must have felt as they were sent to and fro all variety of places around the world, into all sorts of hostile environments. In my father’s case, he left California aboard ship en route to station Guadalcanal where he and his dive-bomber group operated from Henderson Field. I recall him mentioning places he flew, with unusual names like Munda, Bougainville (New Guinea) New Hebrides, New Caledonia — far away from home.

One of his favorite quips on hot days, as we carried out a mission less distant went, “Don’t let the malaria scare ya, there’s fungus among us.” Heartwarming, eh?

Thanks to all who have served, nearby and far off, and for service given now passed. May the small flags on cemetery graves remind us of efforts given and lives lost. Remembering is, perhaps in a  small way, an opportunity to reflect upon the sacrifices endured throughout history by the service community. It’s the least we can do.