Once upon a time, men would remove their hats, women would cover their hearts with their hands and children would stand still at the sound of the national anthem. Crowds would go silent and entire stadiums of people would stop and listen. Respect used to be such a big deal to Americans. Pride used to run deep in their veins. I would know, my grandfather taught me all about it.

My grandfather died in 2003. His death was kind of a turning point in my life. It was when I grew up for several reasons. I remember the few nights before he died when he was in the hospital. It was the first time I'd really been to the hospital for anything other than one of my mom's friends from work. He was lying in the bed asleep with his "Mountain Man" CD playing at his right side. It was his favorite music, something about a fiddle and acoustic guitar calmed him down. The song changed and the fiddle began to murmur " Amazing Grace". I walked to the left side of the bed and lay down next to him, holding his hand in mine. I remember it not feeling like his hand, this hand was cold and weak, and not strong the strong sturdy hand I'd always known. I got up to leave and when I turned around to look at him, I knew he was already gone. The next morning my mother came home to tell me he had passed away.

A few days later I really grew up. We were sitting behind a privacy screen talking to the funeral director, and I remember it well because it was the first and only time I'd seen my father cry. Seeing a grown man break down in front of me sort of broke me on the inside. It showed me the real intensity of the situation. The next day at the funeral, my cousin, Laura, broke down in the seat next to me. She stayed by my side and didn't turn loose of my hand all day. It was sort of surreal for me, a 13 year old, to be holding my 20 year old, crying cousin. As the preacher ended his speech and "Go Rest High" began to play, I choked back the tears because I knew it would make Laura worse. I remember having to practically carry her to the limo because she was too upset to walk on her own.

The car ride to the national cemetery seemed like it took forever, and the 21 gun salute was even longer. It felt like everything was in slow motion. They played "Taps" and folded the flag for my grandma before they lowered him down, and the while I don't remember ever being sad. I wasn't sad that he had died, but so amazingly proud that he had lived. My grandfather was my hero. He grew up playing, and excelling, in basketball at Ash Grove High school. When he turned 18 he came to Ozark from Ash Grove and enlisted, went to war and came back with a purple heart while outliving every doctor's predictions. He lived the American dream. Hew was honorably discharged from the United States Army, raised a family, and watched three granddaughters grow up. The fact that we no longer have enough respect for men like that makes me sick. Our country used to be so full of pride. After 9/11 we gained some of it back, but obviously not enough. When people at high school football games talk and cuss at the anthem, with their hats still on their heads, we have a serious problem as a nation. In my opinion, if we no longer support our troops and protect our veterans, we don't deserve the many liberties of this country.

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