It was December of 1942 when the United States entered WWII. I was elated. I couldn’t wait to see the soldiers in the streets, the guns, the shooting and the tanks. I was but a child with no concept whatever of the realities of war.
But the war continued into my teenage years. I remember the cards with stars that mothers put proudly in their windows signifying sons who had gone to fight. I remember when the color of some of those cards changed from white to gold. I’m older now, and every Election Day I remember why they died.
The act of voting is always an emotional one for me. It has nothing to do with the candidates or issues; it’s about the right. To vote is to honor those who sacrificed sons and daughters, limbs and life to preserve that right, for me. It is the least I can do to have a lump in my throat when I vote.