Author’s note: Another piece from my blog during Operation Iraqi Freedom. It struck me at the time that I was spending Memorial Day living and seeing exactly what that day is all about in our country, and probably changed forever the seriousness and reverence with which I observe the holiday.

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Somewhere in America, a family sleeps late in comfortable beds in their air-conditioned home, because it’s a national holiday and there is no school or work.

Somewhere in Iraq, a Marine rises before dawn after sleeping for a few hours on a hard, concrete floor or on the dusty ground. He doesn’t even know it’s a holiday as he preps himself and his gear for another day in a hostile land.

The family sits at their kitchen table and has a late breakfast of eggs, omelets, or pancakes, with fresh milk and coffee while they leaf through the newspaper and talk about what they’ll do for the day.

The Marine sits cross-legged on the ground, cuts open his MRE with his knife, and eats it cold. It’s not even a breakfast meal, and he washes it down with the first swallows of what will turn out to be gallons of water that he’ll drink during the course of the day. He’ll chat with another Marine or two about the day’s operation.

The family will take leisurely showers under steaming hot water, with soap and shampoo. They’ll dry off using fresh, plush towels and put on comfortable slippers.

The Marine might get a chance to take a field bath using baby-wipes. He’ll knock the edge off of the whiskers protruding from his face with something resembling a razor. There will be a vain attempt to mask his prominent odor with deodorant and perhaps a fresh t-shirt, but he hasn’t had fresh cammies to put on in a week, making it all an effort in futility. He puts on the same boots he’s worn for months, the ones that have caused his feet to be covered in calluses.

The family is off to the lake for the day. They’ve loaded their boat with coolers, picnic supplies, water skis and fishing poles.

The Marine is off on yet another patrol. He’s loaded his Humvee with water, medical supplies, a heavy machine gun, and extra ammunition.

The family cruises across the glistening water, bouncing on the boat wakes and waving to the other boaters.

The Marine rides along dry, dusty roads behind bulletproof glass and armor. Lots of people watch him pass. Nobody waves.

The family stops at lunchtime on an island in the lake. Pulling up to the beach, they unload their supplies and set out a comfortable spread. The children run about and explore the area.

The Marine stops about lunchtime, too. But his purpose is to set up a vehicle checkpoint to search for insurgents transporting bomb-making material. He unloads concertina wire, signs, and temporary barriers. He doesn’t eat lunch. No one ventures far from the vehicles.

On the lake, the family enjoys the sunshine wearing their swimsuits and flip-flops. They slather themselves in suntan oil to develop a nice, golden tan.

Out on the patrol, the Marine detests the sun because the temperature is already well over 100 degrees. He labors under the weight of his protective gear and sweats clear through his cammies. He smears the strongest sunblock he can find on what little skin is exposed because it’s been red with sunburn for days on end.

In the afternoon, the family heads back to the shore and loads up for the trip home. The kids fall asleep in the back seat during the ride, and the local radio station plays the latest hits.

After wrapping up the checkpoint, the Marine mounts back up and moves out toward their final destination for the day. Everyone is tired, but they struggle to stay awake and stay alert. The only radio they have is the one that links them with the rest of the patrol and the command post.

On their drive home, the family hits a pothole in the roadway and complains about what a lousy job of road maintenance the county is doing.

On his drive back to the operating base, the Marine is hit by an IED.

At the end of the day, the family arrives back home a little tired, but safe and sound, and happy to have spent the day together.

In Iraq, the Marine is mourned by his comrades and commanders. He’s laid in a flag-draped casket for the journey home.

In America, as the family settles in for the evening, there is a knock at the door. Standing at the threshold are two solemn faced Marines in dress blues…