The 4th of July.
The large flag draped the coffin of my Uncle Harold, who served in WW2 in the SouthPacific. He was, oops, is a Marine ("Once a Marine, always a Marine") and he survived the GuadalCanal invasion. I have never met a Marine who could talk about those days, without choking up with tears rising in their eyes and some of them spilling over, as they began to relive those sad days. It was easier not to talk about that day. In those days men didn't boast or complain about the horror they witnessed. He was a big man, standing 6'4", and he talked like a gangster, for you see, he was from New York, and this little girl idealized him. He was my Uncle Harold.