I loved being with my father. Some days, he would pick me up in the company truck and we would travel to Fort Kent, via Route 161. We would snack on Drake’s Coffee Cake and chocolate milk, the interior of the truck glowing and warmed by the winter sunshine. He would talk with me about his life and though he did not speak often of the Korean War, he was proud of his military service. I never had to look beyond the closet that held his Army uniform to confirm that he was a patriot of the finest caliber. I did not associate the preservation of freedom with Capitol Hill, presidential elections, or political scandals. I am sure he and my mother spoke often about those two years of his life that took him from the potato fields of northern Maine to the battlefields of Korea but my sister and I were not privy to the majority of his recollections; with the exception of one. I will share this with you now.
The station my father resided in was under attack. He was sent out into the unknown, along with other troops, and told to do his best to defend himself and his comrades. He said the sky was totally black; yet the explosions that were occurring one behind the other illuminated the sky and the ground with blinding, angry light. He sat there on a large rock, a gun in his hand and terror in his heart. He could hear movement all around him and when the brilliance of the bombing once again cast its light, he could see his fellow soldiers as well as enemy soldiers scattered about the area. Though rivals, they were drawn together by fear and not one gun was fired throughout the long, torturous evening. For that one moment in time, everyone there shivering in the ebony night was on the same playing field.
My father taught me that you do not have to look very far to find the leaders of this nation; whether they are soldiers, teachers, farmers, mechanics, factory workers, fast food workers, lawyers, doctors or nurses. This country we love gives us every opportunity to excel in any direction we choose. This freedom comes with a price, however. Sometimes, it is a dream shattered. Often, it is a debilitating medical condition from the wounds of battle. And tragically, the price of freedom can be the devastation of a life lost.
Patriotism can be as simple as a child holding a tiny American flag. Patriotism is evident in the gathering of people on a cool July night, fleece blankets draped over their shoulders as they watch a display of furious fireworks above their heads; a million sizzling drops of color slashing through the gray sky. Patriotism is the arthritic, weathered hands of the farmer and the factory worker and the loving homemaker. Patriotism is the realization that despite the imperfections and the mistakes along the way, this country continues to thrive.
Have a safe and happy Fourth of July!
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine. rr.com.
