Publisher's Desk

It is hard to imagine any family living long in these United States not being touched by the ravages of war. Many good men and women have been lost in service to our country.

They left behind mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, cousins and friends.

For me, Memorial Day immediately reminds me of my grandmother's brother, James E. "Jimmy" Joyner, Jr.

Jimmy arrived in Europe in about June 1944. He was a forward observer for an artillery unit. In his position, he was particularly hated by the enemy because his radio communiques helped Allied forces rain down hell.

Yet, even with a huge target on his back, Jimmy made it through the entire war unscathed. Then, after VE day, he drowned in the Rhine River. He was the last in the Joyner line, and his surname died with him. Sure, I carry his blood, but not the name, "Joyner." I could not think of a bigger sacrifice than to lay down one's life knowing there are no offspring to carry on the family name.

Then, I think about Fred Morton Hughes of Wellton, Ariz. For those of you who don't know it, Wellton is a tiny desert town about 45 minutes north of Yuma, my hometown.

During the 1940's four "boys" went off to fight in World War II. They were C.J. "Jack " Mains, Jack Short, Hugh Spain and Hughes. Hugh Spain was my grandfather. He served in the Army Air Corps in England. When he wasn't too heavy to be cleared for pilot duty, he worked as a firefighter responding to wrecked planes landing back in Britain after sorties over Fortress Europe.

Mom tells me the experience greatly impacted grandpa Hugh, as he was witness to horribly mangled and burned airmen when he came upon their planes.

Back to Hughes. He was an adoptive part of the Spain family. He was sent to fly transport planes between India and China, hopping over the Himalayas. On one mission, his plane was wrecked, and he died. He is now buried in the "Punch Bowl" in Hawaii.

VFW Post 6790, in Wellton, is named for Hughes. It was founded in 1950 by members including my grandfather, Mains and Short, who survived the war.

My other grandfather, Charles McDaniel, served in the Army Air Corps aboard a B-17. After the war, he ended up in Butte, Montana. He was a great mechanic, and always kicked himself for not going to work for Boeing. Instead, he fixed the giant dump trucks in the open pit mine.

Finally, I think of my brother, Matt. He joined the Army in peace time in the late 1990s. He served in South Korea. He was honorably discharged and stayed there to teach English.

But, as many other veterans have experienced, getting out of the army was a massive change from which he never recovered. He died in California in 2019.

I ruminate upon all these brave men in my family, and adoptive family, who served and were forever changed by their experiences in war. Or, who never came home.

That is what Memorial Day is all about. Taking a moment in our busy lives to stop and reflect upon who we have lost, and why.

While tough to deal with, George W. Bush said it well, "Their sacrifice was great, but not in vain."

As I look out onto South 2nd Avenue while writing this, viewing citizens walking by in peace going about their lives, I know such sacrifice, indeed, was not in vain.