Before-bed read

“Mr. Murphy snapped to attention and saluted, giving

the ceremony unexpected dignity. Tears rolled down his wrinkled

cheeks.”

When April Knight invited an elderly neighbor to join her and her son for dinner, she never imagined her small act of kindness would have such a big impact on everyone at the table

Mr. Murphy is doing it again, Mom. Every morning he puts up the flag, and every evening he pulls it down,” Peter said, as he watched our neighbor through the kitchen window.

“He’s patriotic,” I said to my 10-year-old son.

“We’re patriotic, but we don’t have a 30-foot flagpole in our yard,” Peter said. “Who do you think he is?”

“You’ll find out tonight,” I said. “I’ve invited our new neighbor to come to dinner and get acquainted.”

When he arrived, I saw that Mr. Murphy had dressed in a suit and tie. His hair was still damp from his shower, and his cheeks were shiny from a fresh shave. It was obvious that getting invited to dinner was a big social event for him, and I was glad I’d used our good china.

Peter was never one to be shy. “Why do you put up that flag every day?”

“Lots of reasons, I guess,” responded Mr. Murphy. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad to be an American. I think it’s pretty to see the flag climbing up the flagpole to greet the morning. And it just makes me feel good.”

“I thought maybe you used to be a general or something,” Peter said.

Mr. Murphy laughed.

“No, I was just a 17-year-old private in the Army who got shot in both legs when our unit landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day in World War II,” he said.

“Omaha Beach,” I said quietly. “Not many survived that.”

“No,” he whispered, “not many.” “Did you get any medals?” Peter asked.

“Yes, I got a couple. I got a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. I could show you the Purple Heart,” he offered.

“Can I see the Bronze Star too?” Peter asked.

“No, I never got it. Lots of soldiers earned medals but never got them. Besides, we weren’t trying to win medals; we were trying to win a war,” Mr. Murphy said. “You did,” Peter said. “Thanks.” Mr. Murphy smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“No, I meant it,” Peter said firmly. “Thanks.”

“Couldn’t you write to the president and get your medal?” I asked as I passed the potatoes.

“I don’t want to bother the president,” he laughed. “Besides, cutting through the red tape could take years.” I knew he didn’t have many years. That evening flew by. Before we knew it, Mr. Murphy was thanking us for a lovely dinner and heading home.

The next morning, Peter and I stood at the kitchen window and watched our neighbor raise his flag.

“I made something for him last night.” Peter held out his hand. “It’s a copy of the Bronze Star.”

A gold foil star with slightly crooked points hung from a striped cloth. I recognized the material; it had been cut from the tail of Peter’s favorite shirt.

“I know it isn’t the real thing, but he’ll never get the real medal, will he, Mom?”

“No,” I answered simply. “Why don’t you give that to him right now?”

“I feel embarrassed to go alone. Will you go with me?”

I phoned Mr. Murphy and asked him to meet us beside his flagpole.

“I know this is about 50 years late, but I brought you your Bronze Star,” Peter said. He pinned the paper medal to the pocket of the old man’s shirt.

Mr. Murphy snapped to attention and saluted, giving the ceremony unexpected dignity. Tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.

“I couldn’t be any prouder if the president himself had given this to me,” he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

A few days later, I took a casserole to Mr. Murphy and saw a frame hanging over the mantel. It contained a faded Purple Heart…and a Bronze Star made from gold foil and a piece of a boy’s favorite shirt. Both were precious to the old soldier.

The next morning, Peter looked out the kitchen window to watch Mr. Murphy put up the flag.

“Mom! Look!” Peter shouted and ran to the door.

Fearing the worst had happened to our neighbor, I ran after him.

A newly installed flagstaff was attached to the corner post of our back porch. A bright, new American flag was carefully folded across the rail. It was a special gift to a young boy from a grateful old soldier.

Peter quickly unfolded the flag and attached it to the staff. It gave a gentle flutter and settled into a rolling wave.

We turned and saw Mr. Murphy standing in his yard, watching us.

Peter saluted, and the old man smiled and saluted back.

—April Knight