...old times there are not forgotten.

Guidon of the 48th GA Inf. BCT On the way into the office this morning, I was reflecting on many things. This time of the year, people take the opportunity to count their blessings, remember times past and generally take an inventory of the last year. Since my office is quite a walk from where I park (about half a mile) this reflection time is even more pronounced, but today’s hike was slightly different than usual. Allow me to explain; see I work smack dab in the middle of Georgia’s capitol, a literal stone’s throw from the Gold Dome. As a result, when I’m schlepping my way from the parking deck to my office, I pass all manner of memorials, statuary, commemorative plaques, historical markers…well, you get the idea. Today, something caused me to truly take in my surroundings and what I discovered spurred me to write this missive. Perhaps it was the 32 degree temperature, or the aforementioned season we find ourselves in, but something sparked me to stop momentarily and observe. Leaving the parking deck and traversing inside the adjacent state office building I use as a “short cut”, I noticed a small office on my left. The door signage said “Georgia Department of Veteran Services”. It was a tiny office, even compared to my miniscule piece of taxpayer funded real estate, having only two desks, maybe half again as many chairs and a massive display case dominating the center of the room. The case was filled with medals of all description, most of which I couldn’t recognize from a distance. Flags were prominent here as well, as were several patriotic posters and other military paraphernalia decorating the otherwise minimalist space. I continued walking. As I rounded the tiny veteran’s office, my gaze caught something on the adjacent wall. Stretching some 20 or 30 feet, the wall was quite literally loaded with dozens of photographs from WWII. Starting with Pearl Harbor (apropos considering today’s date), it showed a black & white pictorial progression of the war ending with the signing of the treaty on the deck of the Missouri. Then, looking up, lining the top of the wall, I see a long succession of portraits…Medal of Honor recipients from my state, each of them looking more like young cherub faced school boys than decorated warriors. I suddenly felt quite small under their collective gaze. Deciding that I needed to move along, I exited the building and headed across campus toward the state house. As I walked, I saw more memorials dedicated to vets; to my left in the breezeway was a bronze and granite memorial to WWI service members…to my right, an exhaustive list of names of Georgians who served in WWII…straight ahead, a similar memorial to Korea and further still, a life-size statue of three soldiers, dedicated to those who served in Vietnam. Crossing the street, I spot an eternal flame memorial sitting atop a marble pedestal honored the vets from Georgia who died in WWI, its jet of fire shooting about a foot into the cold morning air. Another block away, I see a bronze statue of a German Sheppard, dedicated to the memory of canines who have served alongside their human companions in war and in service to the community. I shook my head as I counted back at all I’d walked past so many times, seeing these dedications, but rarely considering their significance. Momentarily I felt a pang of guilt. In the 20 minute trek to my office, I was surrounded by no fewer than a dozen reminders of those who chose the warrior’s path, to stake their lives on an idea or the convictions of their conscience. To say that it was humbling would not do the emotion justice. In this season of giving and remembrance, I took a moment to reflect on the cost of securing the right to live in a nation that allows for such. I can celebrate Christmas in peace because there are those, yesterday and today, who didn’t have that luxury. To those men and women, I offer my heartfelt gratitude and eternal admiration. My God bless you all.