Today, I, as I’m sure many of you will, too, will make sure the Stars and Stripes are flying high and proud in front of the house, will spend some quality time around the grill with family and friends and most likely hit the sack earlier than usual before heading back to work Tuesday.

More importantly, though, I will think of my grandpa and my uncle.

It’s Memorial Day, after all.

Both my grandpa and my uncle made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. Uncle Bob was killed in Vietnam, in the Tet Offensive. While Grandpa did not die while in service in World War II, what he endured storming the beaches of Normandy pretty much destroyed his heart, according to Grandma. While he eventually recovered from his physical wounds (survived being shot 3 times), he lost so many brothers in arms he never recovered, becoming an extreme introvert and shutting down emotionally.

I have precious few memories of Uncle Bob. A few of them center around him teaching me how to defend myself when Dad — his brother — would hit the bottle too hard (not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately) and take his anger out on me.

Uncle Bob’s advice?

“Run like hell!” he said, matter-of-factly. “He can’t catch you and by the time he sleeps it off, he won’t remember, anyway.”

There were times, though, Uncle Bob stood up for me against his older, and much-larger, brother when he came at me. And while I was safe and sound, he always paid a price.

Remembering those times, it’s no surprise what Uncle Bob did.

He wasn’t drafted into service in Vietnam.

He willingly enlisted… just as his father, my grandpa, did in World War II.

Most of my memories of Grandpa are spending time in his garage, watching him build things out of wood, or repairing almost anything or cleaning our catch from our frequent fishing sojourns on Lake Erie.

The vast majority of those times, though, Grandpa didn’t say much. I always thought it was just his nature. Grandma, though, shared with me how much of a kind, caring gentleman he was when he enlisted in the Army on Dec. 8, 1941… the day after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

I only mustered the courage to ask Grandpa about the war once, after he had downed more than a few beers while we were in his garage working on something or other.

He answered all the questions a 12-year-old could come up with, though I could tell it was anything but easy for him.

Turns out, according to Grandma, he was being crushed by the weight of guilt.

Guilt for living while almost all of his brothers in his unit were cut down on the beach at Normandy… guilt for coming home alive from war while his youngest son was killed generations later.

Survivor's remore, I believe it's called.

I have all of the medals Grandpa and Uncle Bob earned, as well as the flags that draped their coffins when they were laid to rest, though Uncle Bob’s body was never recovered.

More importantly, though, I have the letters they sent home while they were fighting for the almost-countless freedoms we all enjoy, though take for granted, every day.

Those letters are what I cherish most because they are from young men who while they were fighting for their lives and their country, were alive, though in great peril.

So today, in addition to making sure the flag doesn’t wrap around the poll from which it hangs as well as the get-together with family and friends, I will also spend time at the cemetery. In fact, after I post this, I’m heading there.

I want to be there at sunrise. I want to say a prayer for Grandpa and Uncle Bob.

I want to tell them how much I miss them.

And I want to thank them — along with all the incredibly brave men and women who have, do and will — put their lives on the line for the rest of us.

When I examine what I’ve done in my life, where I’ve been, where I’m at and where I’m headed, I can’t help but feel so inferior to Grandpa and Uncle Bob.

What makes a man who he is? Is it the worst things he’s ever done, or the best things he wants to be?

I find myself in the middle of my life, now, and I know I’m nowhere near where I was going or had the potential to be.

How do I find the way from the person I’ve become to the one I know I could have been?

I’m certain Grandpa and Uncle Bob didn’t have these kinds of issues.

They wre young men who made decisions to put their lives on hold, or in Uncle Bob’s case, to eventually give his, to go off to war in service of their country.

They were patriots.

They were heroes.

They, and all whom have served our country, were living proof that what lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

God bless you, Grandpa and Uncle Bob.

(apologies if this is TL/DR)