Hero is a word that has been so misconstrued over the last decade that it has very little resemblance to what it means. This comes from Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, “Hero, 1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.” A definition like this could be fairly upsetting to some who follow the post-modernistic route. In the words of my friend, Michael O. “Oh well.”
It pretty much excludes most people that have been written about and held up as heroes today; professional athletes, musicians, actors, politicians etc. Most heroes don’t talk about it. If you are hearing how heroic someone is from their press agent, TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, Oprah or Katy Couric, you know that you’ve got a phony in the works.
I grew up around heroes, and I almost forgot about it. It was a generation of heroes, and I ran into them every day. My Dad, my grandfather, my older cousins, the guys my parents knew from church, from our camping group, from work, and the other fathers and grandfathers on Laughlin Street, and the neighborhood.
I’ve met heroes at work. One was a B-17 pilot out of North Africa, and completed his 50 missions by the time he was 23. Another was a Marine infantryman; he made his way across the Pacific, and back home. One was a tank commander in Europe. I had a cousin that fought his way up the length of Italy, and another that was a bombardier. I’ve met men that were cooks, mechanics, sheet metal workers, medics, truck drivers, chaplains and clerks.
They served in the Pacific, in Europe, in Alaska, in Texas, Great Lakes Naval Center, Brooklyn, Chanute Field, Florida, and Oklahoma. Some enlisted, some were drafted, and some served at home farming, working in factories, taking care of the church.
I count it as a blessing that I grew up with men like these around me, to teach me, to lead, to set examples of how to live. More importantly than that, I am a Grateful Son.
Thank you Dad.
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