On Behalf of a Grateful Granddaughter

Note: Not my usual geeky/goofy fare today; just something I've been working on for a while and wanted to share. I hope you enjoy.

We drove an hour north to climb into a big, beautiful limo.

I hadn't been in one since my wedding. Some of the others had never been in one.

It had a mirrored ceiling and colorful cocktail napkins tucked into champagne glasses, all lined up, waiting for next prom season.

There were even crystal bourbon decanters, but they were empty. (I checked.)

During the next hour's drive, we all laughed quite a lot.

And we talked even more.

I wish I could say everything seemed so much more alive, more meaningful, when we drove through the gates. But really, I just thought it was a pretty drive.

We wound through shaded roads and moss-dripping trees, and then everyone told me to turn around and take a picture of these men on the side of the road:

I began snapping pictures through the glass.

Then the car stopped, and I realized they were there for us.

Deeply embarrassed, I put the camera down and was handed out of the car.


We sat on tiny stone benches under a small gazebo across the road. There a man who'd never met you told us things about your life I never knew. He also read a prayer, and called you "brother."


I didn't take any pictures of that.


The men-at-attention stood that way while we sat. If I turned my head I could just see them, there in the sun. It was about 90 degrees, and so thick we drank the air.


The man warned us it would be loud, but I didn't cover my ears. I covered my eyes, and took as many pictures as I could.

One even caught the puff of smoke from their rifles:

I wished the cars weren't there.

I wish I knew enough about PhotoShop to take them out.


Then the man on the right began to play, and the first notes were so pure, so piercing, that the thick air turned to crystal.

Or maybe I just forgot to breathe.

I stood at the edge of the gazebo, one foot in the grass, and watched through my sunglasses. (I was glad for those sunglasses.) The silence that followed was like the awkward pause at a dinner party.

The few of us who'd stood shuffled back to our seats.

I'd been asked to take pictures for the family, but the click-click-clicking seemed so tacky, so loud. I was embarrassed. Still, I couldn't miss the flag:

And when the shaking old veteran began, "On behalf of a grateful nation..." I risked a shot of that, too. Because I had to.

I had to.

I hope they understood.

I don't remember it being this clear.

I think...maybe that's why I need these pictures.

Then it was over, the strings of formality cut, and I could click away with impunity.

June, watching with gentle sympathy, Mom, smiling through tears, Uncle Russ stoic, and Grandma somehow more radiant than I've ever seen her.

A few more silent pictures, and Grandma and I walked across the road.

I tried to thank the man with the trumpet, but my voice failed me, and I couldn't see if he'd heard. They all stood staring straight ahead, waiting.

I wondered how many tearful granddaughters they'd seen that day.

Grandma planted herself at a distance, like a proud commander, and thanked them all. Then she handed me her cane, and the man called an order, and I took this picture:

We were never close, you and I. You were gruff, and I was sensitive. I never tried to know you better.

I never knew you were a baker.

But I'm glad I got to say goodbye.

These men - these soldiers - never knew you at all. Still, they honored you, and they honored us. They are still sacrificing for their country, in the 90 degree heat and the drinkable air.

And this granddaughter, at least, is so very grateful.

Charles R. Christensen, 1/27/28 - 6/14/11


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Update: I've since had several people send me revised versions of my photo with the cars removed. I'm overwhelmed and humbled by your generosity, and I want to thank you all for helping me make a beautiful keepsake for my family. I can't wait to show it to my grandmother in the photobook I'm designing - so thank you all. Truly.