We buried my father 32 years ago today. Does that seem possible? I can still hear the taps being played, the 21 gun salute, the sound they made on the cold and snowy hill in Frostburg, Maryland. It was so cold and so icy we had the grave side service on the top of the hill and not at the grave site the was down the sloping hill. I lost my best friend, my father, but I also lost so much of his story and experience as a POW. I’ve spent years researching what I simply could have ask if I had known what a story he had to tell. I miss you, Daddy. I’m trying to tell your story, keep it alive for those yet to be.
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