My father died on Memorial Day in 1967.  That was fifty years ago.  That is hard for me to fathom.  Fifty years ago.  I was ten.

He died drunk driving in Sheffield Village, Ohio leaving behind a wife and seven children, including two year old triplets.

I could write page after page about this and perhaps someday I will (but not on a bicycle blog).

He served as a radioman on a bomber in the South Pacific during WWII and I have silk maps that he carried with translations to Japanese such as, I am an American, etc.

The morning of his death I carried the American flag in the Memorial Day Parade; the world was never the same.