Today is the anniversary of my brother's birthday; he would have been 88 years old. He quit school, lied about his age, and at age 16, joined the army in 1942. He was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge on Christmas Day, 1944. He was sent to a hospital in England, where he died from those wounds on Valentine's Day, 1945. (Penicillin was either not available or its use was very limited at that time. Otherwise, he might have survived.)

Anyway, I'm the last person in my family to have actually "known" him. I called my two younger sisters to remind them of the day; I just wanted someone besides myself to remember.

Imagine my surprise when my niece called and wanted to ask questions about what I remembered about him and our growing up years. She's been interested in genealogy for some time, but she and I had never talked about him. It's amazing the memories that pop to the surface, when one begins talking about "older times".

"Happy Birthday, Buddy".