Sunday found me carrying cans of water to the graves of my parents at Christ Church near Saluda, Virginia. I was trying to revive some plantings that had wilted in this summer’s heat. On the way back to the truck, I noticed that the small Marine Corps flag on the grave of Chesty Puller had blown over, so I walked over and straightened it up.
I stood there looking at Puller’s plain flat marker, decorated only with the globe and anchor. Thinking back, I recalled the hard, flinty-eyed old man I remembered from attending Christ Church when I was a kid. I had also recently revisited his incredible adventures in uniform while reading a new biography of the General.
To think that all this guts and glory and patriotism had, in the end, come down to this quiet rural cemetery. It was hot out there, and it was quiet, and I stood for a while thinking about Puller. Although not a veteran, I took the liberty of saluting the grave before I left.
There, gentlemen, near the banks of the Rappahannock River, is the last resting place of one hell of a man.