Because I live only half a block from the parade route, over the years, I have witnessed many upon many a Memorial Day Parade. The first ones I attended were sad remnants of a crumbling tradition – a few old soldiers trailing dispiritedly behind one or two reluctant high school bands.

Not even the boy scouts came.

But I always did. Feeling, I guess, that the location of my house was something in the nature of an obligation. American soldiers who had fought, and sometimes died, in foreign wars had made the down payment on my freedom. Each Memorial Day Parade was a debt, and it was my responsibility to pay.

So, there I was. Year after year. Little ol’ me, a few like-minded neighbors, and whichever old soldiers were still ambulatory enough to walk or wobble, if not march, down the street.

Then, Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, our military embarked upon the Gulf War, and everything changed.

Yellow ribbons began to flutter around the trunks of old oak (and maple) trees. Flags long thrust in the back of dark closets were unfurled and proudly hung from balconies. People who had not done so in years put hands over hearts and felt no shame when, with or without God, they recited the Pledge of Allegiance.