My father died on Memorial Day in 1967. That was fifty years ago. That is hard for me to fathom. Fifty years ago. I was ten.
He died drunk driving in Sheffield Village, Ohio leaving behind a wife and seven children, including two year old triplets.
I could write page after page about this and perhaps someday I will (but not on a bicycle blog).
He served as a radioman on a bomber in the South Pacific during WWII and I have silk maps that he carried with translations to Japanese such as, I am an American, etc.
The morning of his death I carried the American flag in the Memorial Day Parade; the world was never the same.