Sorenne and I wore poppies to school today, as did Amy, after having a long chat about WW1 and what it meant.

My grandfather was too young to serve in WWI and too old for WWII, but he served in Wales, on local watch. My father was just a babe when Newport got bombed to hell in WWII and I still remember a pic of him in an astronaut’s helmet in a bomb shelter.

He was about 1-year-old.

On the way back from school, I had conversations with three different veterans, and thanked them for their service.

They were all headed to the local park, for a memorial service.

An Australian friend tells me, every little town and suburb in this country has parks and memorials like that, and it’s quite remarkable.

I agree, and have visited enough to know it’s true.

I’m sorta like Tony Soprano, who had a penchant for WWII documentaries, in that there’s an underlying feeing of inadequacy when compared to what our forebears did.

I’m grateful.

Sorenne is too.