By Patti Childress
The sharp smell of shoe polish and the swoosh swoosh of the brush across his boots are some of my earliest memories. I would sit and watch the ritual: the pile of cotton balls, the little tin of shoe polish and the bowl of water neatly placed on the table.
My dad retired after serving 24 years in the Air Force. He took great pride in serving his country and wearing his uniform. A regular spit shine was only part of it. It didn’t matter whether it was his daily fatigues or his dress military blues – every patch, stripe, pin, ribbon and oak leaf cluster was perfectly placed because it meant something.
Starting the day with the blast of reveille and ending it with the echoes of retreat, the perfectly-folded flag, the white gloves, the clean snap of the rifle, the cadence of the march, the roar of the jets, the heart-wrenching notes of taps – all of these things meant something to him.
Tradition, ritual, honor, duty, respect. These weren’t just words or empty actions, they were deeply embedded in his character and he did his best to pass them on to his daughters. I would like to believe he mostly succeeded.
Master Sergeant Kenneth Wayne Hemmings was laid to rest with full military honors at Albert G. Horton Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery in February this year, wearing his dress blues with a high polish on his shoes. As we gathered together waiting for our time at the pavilion, a bald eagle circled slowly overhead, staying until the end. I asked if we ordered the deluxe military package. My sisters and I laughed, then we cried. He would have loved every moment of it.
