EDITOR'S NOTE: This is a personal remembrance for Editor in Chief Jeff Sullivan's grandfather, who passed away in 2004.

My father’s war was WWII. We lost him in 2004 – a great guy who had many stories to tell. But he hardly told a soul.

Those boys and men, the “greatest generation,” served silently, came back, and kept it within. There are no gory stories I’ve since found out, no tales of secret heroism. No, my father’s tale was ordinary and probably quite typical. Edwin Kowalewski was young man who, after Pearl, knew he’d have to go. He went, saw a bit of the world, saw a war, came back and began to live his life and dream ours. He grew up in Southie, then moved us all to Fields Corner while working for the MBTA as a much-loved bus driver.

To give you a glimpse into who my father was, there was a profile article years and years ago in the Boston Herald. The author, Peter Gelzinis, profiled my father’s time as a bus driver for the MBTA, and he characterized him as a therapist; “At a quarter a ride, Ed just might be the cheapest shrink in town. ‘Hey, what can I say about drivin’ a bus? I mean you get your moments of fun, and sometimes moments of despair.’”

“Ed defines the city in terms of its bus routes. ‘You take your City Hospital to Copley Square run – now that’s a lonely run. It’s kind of sad; the old ladies who’ll ride the bus for hours, just to have somebody to talk to. I never throw them off. What are you going to do? I mean, if it makes them happy....”

The author went on to note that, “Ed laughs at being the only MBTA driver to be given a ticket for speeding on the Mass. Turnpike.”

For all our sakes, let’s hope he still has that record.

My father was born on this date, November 11th in 1919. My family’s tale is typical: four immigrant grandparents from Poland (or Lithuania or the Ukraine, depending on when and who’s telling the tale). Persecuted, conscripted, pursued… until America, this land of freedom and opportunity, a place to live and work hard and not be afraid. A place where, when that freedom from fear became commonplace, you set your sights a little higher; maybe bought a house, maybe began dreaming that your children or your children’s children would someday go to college, become “better.”

And that is the simple dream that came true for so many of us blessed children, and children’s children: the freedom to dream, and the jobs to earn the livings to pursue the dreams. They lived those ordinary lives; the lives of jobs and second jobs so the kids could go to better schools or have music lessons. My parents did that—as I’m sure many of yours did as well. And I have the rewards: the Dorchester childhood, the college degree, the good jobs, and the life in the country.

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The life in this country, too. This is the story to remember our fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters and others who have fought and died, or are still fighting and dying, so that we can go on living these dreams. These dreams that I see daily, living a life my parents and their parents never dared dream of.

When the veterans gather on Veteran’s Day, they come in silent reverence, their uniforms tight but still fitting, still representative of so many pasts, so many pains. And yet still representative of America and service to your country.

Because you know the dreams are worth fighting for.

Veteran’s Day ceremonies are probably repeated thousands-fold throughout America on a holiday like this. Some ceremonies have more in attendance, some have more to remember. But it’s like a hidden spirit, a spine here in America – reminding us we have those quiet men and women that know duty. They’re still being born, because they’re still signing up and still serving and, sadly, still dying.

And still worth remembering, even when they have gone. Even when they lived to be 84, like my Dad, who died the way we all should – at home surrounded by family, his war just a memory overshadowed by his ordinary, wonderful life.