Freedom is Not Free

by Kim Thomas

I am a bad blog mother, and I apologize for my absence.

However, my attention again has been distracted by artistic devotion that is fascinating. Blues, jazz, folk - I cover it all for Ace Weekly, and I know I'm a lucky gal in that I get to meet some very cool, very devoted artists who let me peek into their lives and give voice to their newest efforts. So it happens that Miles Osland and his jazztet have released a new CD called Evidence and lucky for me, while writing my cover story for aceweekly.com, Miles gave me a copy of that recording as well as Quotient by the dimartino/Osland jazz orchestra (DOJO). So I'm listening to Begin the Beguine, My Funny Valentine, ever America (the Beautiful) and enjoying the heck out of having two days off in a row, with no true obligations, just three days to relax. Yes, I've been distracted, but tomorrow is Memorial Day, and I will not let it pass with praying for our military and their families, and by observing what Liberty means to me. Freedom, after all, is not free.

It's a gorgeous day here in the Bluegrass, a lazy Sunday, a day to rest and remember. The Navy hymn was sung this morning in church, it's a respectful salute to 'those in peril, on the sea." Oh my. There are no words to describe my gratitude for men and women in the military who have served and my earnest hope that we will improve healthcare for our veterans when they return home -- and it is crucial that we always remember our fallen, those who gave their life so that I may live free. I never want to take for granted their sacrifice.

How do I remember you?
This morning, I found the perfect red-white-and-blue bouquet and placed it in Lexington Cemetery in honor of my father, Marshall Henry Thomas. His service to our country during World War II, along with so many others, is something which I will never take for granted. Yes, he brought home a Purple Heart, received a Silver Star, and he had a bunch of ribbons and pins -- as kids we would steal a look at his medals that were kept in a drawer, not out in the open or on display, but in my father's top dresser drawer, where Mom kept her good pearls.

Yeah, I remember the many medals, but more than any of the war remnants that can be put in a drawer and out of sight, I very much remember an ever present reminder,a huge, probably half-dollar sized scar on Dad's shin. We knew to avoid that spot, and if we accidentally touched it, we were in the Biggest Trouble you could possibly be in as a Thomas kid. We'd spill Kool-Aid, we'd step on bees, break glasses, but we were pretty wary about hitting that wound. Now that I'm older, I realize a scar that big is pretty deep, and shins are hard to heal. Now that I have seen the ravages of war and am more adult in my focus, I know that he probably felt fortunate to simply get home alive with a handful of shrapnel in his shin and a slipped disc. At any rate, we never touched the scar. We knew better.

Another war object that we were never to touch was hidden at the tippy-tippy top of the tallest shelf in the house, above the washer; it was a German Luger...Dad hated guns, hated them...and then there was the Nazi swor. When I was about 10, I asked him where he got the sword, which was kept in the garage, thrown in the bag with old golf clubs . He told me, he "Liberated it from Germany."

Years later, when he was dying of brain cancer, my father seemed to revert back to being in the War, believing that IV's were guns, and the nurses were Nazis. He also kept telling us he wanted to on 'to that other hotel.' I finally told him it was okay if he wanted to do that, realizing way too late in the game that he was speaking metaphorically about almost everything. He loved the Greenbrier. Hope that's what Heaven looks like...

So often now, I wish I had asked my Pop more about his army service, but he would not have told me any specifics. That is just the way it was with him and apparently most of his army buddies were the same. What they saw, they did not want to share with their children. However, when we asked Dad's buddy, Walt Frietag to give us a little background about what happened 'over there,' he wrote an eloquent account of his and my father's service. It's fascinating and articulate, and we are thankful Mr. Frietag was so gracious. I think it was as hard for us to read as it was for him to write, as he suggested. That story is told in an earlier blog entry via a re-posting of my first Ace Weekly article years ago, in case you're interested in reading it.

Tomorrow, I will honor Marshall Henry Thomas when I will pause at 3:00 p.m., and pray for peace and understanding, giving thanks to God for the privilege of living in the United States, land of Liberty.

pray for peace, y'all,
Kimmy