A Memorial Day for my children to ponder

This post on the day before Memorial Day 2020, the year that wasn't, is for my kids, JJ&D, the "lads," as the fatuous charlatan Dr. Victor Elion (a manipulating and preeningly vain courthouse psychologist in Fairfax), in my opinion, used to call the three minor boys (now fully adult men if they all are still with us, which I wouldn't know since I haven't seen nor heard from any of them in 15 years), the divorce you know.  They all love their mother so, as well they should although in my opinion she is a manipulating covert narcissist; they should have some fealty towards their father too who wiped their bottoms and coached them all in soccer for all those years, it's biblical you know, you could look it up.

There are four pictures (your Grandad my dad) on this Memorial Day weekend of Lambertons (your uncle Jack), our relatives and blood kin, mine and yours, who did their duty (your great-uncle Harry) honorably that you could download (your great-grandfather Lamberton) from the US Navy Log in DC to study and learn from.  For Jimmy, the oldest, now Jim Bradley Rogers, who shocked me when I asked him in 2001 just after 9-11 what he would do if the war of ideologies we were suddenly thrust into spiraled out of control and he answered "Nothing," saying, "That's what we have a professional army for."

For Johnny, the most sober and earnest of the three, who liked playing with little plastic soldiers as I did when I was a child, and who filled me with pride when he came over and took away dozens of my military books from my bookshelf to read, just before he fell prey as a tender boy to the subtle but malicious and vicious adult manipulation of those who traffic in PAS, Parental Alienation Syndrome, a form of child abuse.  He once shouldered his toy wooden rifle in a snowstorm as a pre-adolescent and patrolled our sidewalk at shoulder arms for a half hour, marching back and forth, doing his duty as he saw it as a growing, responsible boy; well my lad, duty includes familial love towards both parents, be it distant or close and loving, because blood is or should be to the fully mature person a paramount passion.

And to Danny, the most abused of the three by those PAS traffickers who sought through grotesque manipulation the pursuit and self-satisfying achievement of gaining their own ends in the divorce wars because he was the youngest and most vulnerable, I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from those who sought to endlessly interrogate you suggestively (unbeknownst to me since I only had you pursuant to plain vanilla visitation 17% of the time) so they could come to court to triumphantly testilie in sonorous voices as to the incredible repressed memories of yours they had fantastically uncovered with their pointed, suggestive questioning, because as a matter of public policy, children can't testify against their parents.  It hurt to read in your on-line wedding book a few years back that you had proposed to your wife at your "father's" house on the Outer Banks; that guy who owns or was willed that house ain't your father and he never wiped your bottom, coached you in soccer or went to bat for you against the school boards in countless Special Ed hearings, nor provided the full funding for your eight semesters at VCU (you're welcome!), I did.