Monday was the first Ellensburg Memorial Day celebration I’ve attended — the first event related to that day that I’ve been to since my grandfather died seven years ago.

The ceremony brought back fond memories of volunteering at the Maple Valley VFW chapter — countless spaghetti feeds where I spent my afternoons running around a reception hall as the sole waitress for the charity event. The young girls who volunteered their time, and voices, during Monday’s ceremony reminded me of all the essays I had written — all things that, to a teenager, just seemed like extra work.

Now, I’ll wholeheartedly admit that I miss it.

Monday, in a nutshell, was eerie. Everywhere I looked I saw someone that reminded me of him. One man, donning a naval uniform, from the corner of my eye even looked like him with a thick white mustache, balding head and that proud look in his eye when Anchors Aweigh played on the loud speaker.

I did a double take — but I’m not crazy. I knew it wasn’t him.

My grandfather, Coleman Arthur Paramore, died on June 28, 2003. The man had been through two wars, got married and raised my mother and her two siblings, but it was ultimately a heart condition that claimed his life.

He didn’t receive his high school diploma until just a few years before he died. Determined to grow up and fight for his country, he snuck away and joined the military at 15, maybe 16. The only temporary barrier was his weight.

The military said he didn’t weigh enough, so the story goes that they told him to eat a bunch of bananas, and come back. He ate, came back, and weighed just enough to enlist and set off to his future on a battleship.

I was 14 when he died. I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head the name of the battleship that he called home during those times. I do know that when it got too hot, he and his buddies would set up hammocks on deck to sleep. One night, they got woken up by the fire of Japanese pilots.

I look back now and regret not asking more questions — not taping every word he had to say. He died before journalist bug bit me you could say. I was 14 — the only things on my mind then were trivial, but seemed so important.

When you are young, you overlook the important things — important opportunities.

He died, and so did his portion of history — at least some of it. A bit lives on in my parents, my grandmother, and the grandchildren. But the true story — the things he saw first hand, went with him to the grave.

He is part of a generation that is dying faster now than they were in combat. Instead of dodging bullets, they are dodging disease.

Before the inevitable happens, spend time with them. Listen to their stories, and revel in the living history before you — before it’s too late, and you live the rest of your life with questions unanswered.