On Sunday, Nov. 11, at the Veterans Home of California in Yountville, Home Administrator Marcella McCormack led us in the Armistice toast celebrating the cessation of warfare in World War I.

The year was 1918, 89 years ago, when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, an armistice was signed in a railroad carriage at Compiegne, France. The war to end all wars came to its bloody conclusion, with American casualties — killed and wounded — numbering more than 325,000 young men.

How little we knew then.

Little more than two decades later, America — soon to become a superpower — was embroiled in World War II. The beat of war drums continues to this very day.

On June 1, 1954, President Dwight David “Ike” Eisenhower, once supreme commander of all Allied forces in Europe, signed an act of Congress to honor all veterans and proclaimed the day “Veterans Day.”

America has never forgotten its young men, and later young women, who answered their nation’s call and somehow survived to live out the rest of their days in peace and freedom.

The Veterans Home of California welcomed its first resident members in 1884. Since then, the home has welcomed veterans from as far back as the Indians wars, Mexican War, Civil War, and its doors remain open to this very day.

Last week, on a beautiful, sunny and cool Napa Valley November morning, something prompted me to drive up to the Veterans Home grounds to spend a little time and say a prayer for a few friends.

Anyone who has ever made that journey has noticed the beauty of those grounds — the umbrella of tall trees that line the entrance road onto the grounds, the American flag flying high amidst the flags of our 50 states, united as one whenever the survival of our nation is on the line.

I drove up to the quiet and well-kept cemetery on that sparkling morning, and my friends were waiting for me.

Larry Sterling Lattman’s grave is near the cemetery gate, and this Korean War veteran could not have picked a nicer resting place. I spoke to Larry and said a prayer and before leaving, added a small stone to several atop his headstone, symbolic of love and remembrance in the Jewish faith.

When I first visited the home some years ago, Larry was the man to see as president of the Allied Council. He was the fellow who gathered a group of veterans together in his office at my request and we talked about the old times and the values we’d picked up throughout our lives. Saturday at his grave site, I told him that I missed his salutations, the “How yer doing, kid” upon our meeting and the “Take care of yourself, kid” when I’d depart.

During that meeting in his office, I inquired as to how the guys seated in that room that day were getting on with the home’s new administrator, Marcella McCormack. Larry along with all the other vets including Milo Nelson and Dick Huston, agreed that Marcella was a gift sent from above. They liked her and respected her.

In fact, Larry went so far as to say, “We feel like we all died and went to heaven.”

Reading the inscription on Larry’s gravestone and I realized someone got it right with the words, “He made a difference.” He certainly did.

My journey then took me up a hill to the north, and there were the stone tablets for the more recently interred veterans. I was searching for the final resting places of Dick Huston and Milo Nelson and somehow, someone or something led me to their burial sites not 20 yards apart.

Richard Francis Huston’s tablet read “Corporal USMC WWII” and Milo Nelson’s resting place tablet read “PFC USMC WWII.” I smiled recalling Milo telling me once that his PFC rank really meant “praying for civilian.” Semper Fi, guys!

I once asked Huston what he thought of all those college-age kids we saw on television, burning American flags on American streets and college grounds. Dick, who like Milo fought in the Pacific during World War II, surprised me with his answer.

“We fought to give those kids freedom, so if burning our flag turns them on, so be it. But maybe some day they’ll grow up and realize what they’ve got.” That day in Larry’s office, Dick Huston didn’t curse, shout or shake his head. He just calmly told the truth as he saw it.

At Milo Kinsar Nelson’s grave, the inscription on his tablet aptly described the man. It read, “Retired with dignity.” If ever a man had that special dignity, Milo was that man. He was the fellow who once took me on a walking tour of the home’s cemetery. He was trying to update and chart the resting places of all the cemetery’s dead and when I asked him if he got paid for his efforts, Milo just smiled a “No — but someone’s got to do it.”

As I walked through the columns of the dead, I began reading the inscriptions carved into some of the tablets. Row after row, and some poignant messages stared back at me: “Heaven is my reward,” “The Lord is my shepherd,” The barefoot boy” and “Well done dad — Mission accomplished.” So many of those inscriptions touched me.

My final destination that morning was to the large monument on top of the cemetery’s highest hill, commemorating the memorial to our honored dead who sleep in that sacred place. The engraving on that stone read:

“On fame’s eternal camping grounds

Their silent tents are spread

And glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.”

Driving out of the home grounds that morning past Old Glory and the flags of our 50 states, I realized that all around me, living and dead, were the men and women who once answered the call and have kept us a free nation.

Ev Parker can be reached at evjenpar@mailbug.com or 224-9956.