When I got my jump wings they weren't from my father, who served in the 82nd Airborne during the Korean Conflict. My father wasn't there - we had been estranged for years by that time and not only did we not speak, I hadn't been home in years due to an incident that happened shortly after I started college.

I do remember the looks I used to get when people realized that I was a Naval officer - when they noticed the slight differences in my BDU's, or saw the tab on my chest that said U.S. Navy. How many times did I have to explain that the two bars on my collar indicated that I was Lieutenant, not a Captain. That actually became fun at times.

It was several years later, but eventually my father and I did reconcile. Things were never the same, and never will be, but we do talk now - and I like to think that the shared experience between us helped.

The first time my father saw my jump wings on my dress whites the look in his eyes told me that he was proud of me. Even though he couldn't bring himself to apologize to me, and even though I wasn't ready to accept an apology, that look meant something to me. As did the several relatives who pointed out that like my father before me I had joined a small fraternity; even my asshole uncles and cousins who were still indignant that I joined the Navy rather than the Army.

This was a lovely story, and although I hope my sons never have to hear the sound of a gun fired in anger, I can understand the pride you must feel. The tradition of service in my family goes back to the French and Indian War, and I wholeheartedly support it - but I am glad that my sons have found other ways to serve. My oldest is a teacher, my middle son a police officer, and my baby is still in college with ambitions to play professional soccer and eventually coach.