My parents were born just before the outbreak of what used to be called “The Great War.” They were both raised in the Midwest tradition, which included a strong sense of family loyalty, equality, and patriotism.

They met in Southern California during the Depression and were soon married. My brother was born in 1939, and I debuted a decade later.

We had a typical, middle-class “Happy Days” kind of life during the ’50s, and argued over politics in the ’60s. Although Mom died of cancer in 1975, her spirit lives on in our children and in our hearts. With the new millennium came the birth of her great grandson–Asher Benjamin–courtesy of my nephew and his lovely wife.

I would like to tell you more about myself, or at least brag about my daughter Meredith Kathleen, but this story is not about me, or even this place or time.

It is instead about a pivotal moment in our nation’s history, and the part my folks played in that great drama. So let’s go back more than half a century, back to a day FDR said would “live in infamy.”

It is mid-morning in the burgeoning Los Angeles suburb known as the San Fernando Valley, and Dad is mowing the lawn. (He tells me it was crisp and sunny–a perfect day). Suddenly, Mom comes running out of the house.

“Pearl Harbor!” she screamed. “They bombed Pearl Harbor!”

During the summer of 1942, Dad completed boot camp and within a year was teaching navigation and advanced radar in Gainesville, Georgia. He later served as a radar officer and even did a stint as a waist gunner aboard a PV-1, a twin engine plane similar to a B-25.

Meanwhile, on the home front, Mom spent her time working for the Red Cross and looking after my brother. She soon became a top instructor for that organization, and never took a cent for her efforts.

As they say, “Join the Navy and see the world,” and Dad was lucky enough to see places like Tinian, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. He was released from the service as a Lieutenant (JG) in December, 1945. He earned a few ribbons and battle stars, but, as he said, “No big deal.”

So, why I am telling you this? Ask Churchill. But first, read on.

When World War II began, my father was 28 years old. With a wife and son,and working in a defense related industry, he was eligible for deferment.

Yet he volunteered, and Mom supported his decision.

Many years later, one of our neighbors questioned my father about this fateful decision. He didn’t understand why Dad enlisted when he could have stayed out of harm’s way.

After a moment, Dad looked him in the eye, cleared his throat and began to speak. “If my kids ever asked me what I did in the war,” he said, “I could tell them that I served my country.”

My folks were like so many other young Americans back then, and their actions may have even seemed commonplace for that period in history.

Yet, to me, the contributions and sacrifices made by this group that Tom Brokaw labels “The Greatest Generation” are remarkable and truly inspirational.

Just think where our children would be today had it not been for the energy and dedication of people like my parents. They literally saved the world.

Our indebtedness to these courageous, unselfish heroes is beyond evaluation. Thanks much, Mom. Not bad, Dad.