It usually involved a visit to a cemetery or what we called in my small North Dakota town "the graveyard" to put flowers on the resting places of those who had gone on before.
There were only two in my family who served during World War Two.
My mother's brother, Connie, didn't make it home from his service in the Pacific.
The ironic story I've heard is that he drowned while swimming off of Leyte, in the Philippines, while waiting for a troop ship to take the boys home.
And my father's brother, Zenas, who was well past draft age when he volunteered and spent his service time in Burma and India.
"Zeke", as some in the family called him, came home from the war and spent the rest of his life in his adopted home of San Francisco.
After his death his ashes were scattered in the ocean off a beach where he spent many happy times.
Flash forward a few decades and a few wars and our grandson Russell (or Rusty as I've always called him) served in Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan over the period of several terms in the Army.
He's pictured here with his lovely wife, Kayla.
On this Memorial Day we thank all of them and the millions of others for their service to their country.